


Bring Them Home

by Survivor4Life



Category: EXO (Band), GOT7, Monsta X (Band), NCT (Band), SEVENTEEN (Band), Super Junior, TXT (Korea Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Bargaining, Hospitals, Hostage Situations, Hurt Jeon Jungkook, Hurt Jung Hoseok | J-Hope, Hurt Kim Seokjin | Jin, Hurt Min Yoongi | Suga, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Protective Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups, Protective Kim Namjoon | RM, Protective Lee Taeyong, Psychological Torture, Ransom, Self-Sacrifice, Starvation, Torture, failed escape attempt, why did I do this?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:37:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 104,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Survivor4Life/pseuds/Survivor4Life
Summary: "Hyung … I tried to stop them …""Stop who? What's happening?""They took them."





	1. The First Strike

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is or where it's going but just know that it is going to be messy and triggering and PLEASE DO NOT READ IF IT WILL OFFEND OR UPSET YOU. I really have no clue where this will end up but we'll figure out together - and yes, that does mean I may ask you for inspiration.
> 
> So … enjoy … I guess? 
> 
> Also, a few days ago, I tried to post this but chickened out and orphaned it. Now I'm just going to throw it up here and hope to God that people sort of like it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Kim Namjoon (RM of BTS)

         Namjoon opened the front door with his airpods lodged firmly in his ears and his music blasting at a satisfying pitch … and everything went to hell.

The second he stepped over the threshold, he knew that something was wrong. It was too quiet for a house that was meant to be filled with six people. The silence was so loud that it was almost painful, suffocating, crushing. And Namjoon just knew something awful had happened.

There was a muffled scream from the living room and the duffel bag slipped between the leader’s fingers to crash onto the hallway carpet with a dull thud as he lunged for the door on his right and stumbled onto the scene that would haunt his nightmares.

Jimin was there.  

The kid was wriggling on a chair from the kitchen table, his hands bound behind his back and his feet strapped to the wooden structure. He didn’t look injured at first glance, no sign of blood or bruise on his panicking body, but there were tears streaming from powderpuff eyes to glide gracefully over the duct tape plastered over his mouth.

“Oh my God,” Namjoon breathed as he staggered forwards, dropping to his knees at his little brother’s side to rip the greyish gag off his tear-soaked face. “Are you okay? What the fuck happened?”

Jimin couldn’t respond through his sobs, finally able to let them out without a strip of adhesion containing them inside him. His chin dropped to his chest and his entire body trembled and shook as his shoulders heaved and his lips quivered with residual terror.

“Chim …” Namjoon pushed, taking the little boy’s face in his hands and trying to pull his head up so their eyes could meet. “Are you hurt?”

Jimin finally managed to shake his head in response and only then did Namjoon work on the bindings keeping him fixed to the chair. They were expertly tied, the ropes weaving around each other as they snaked up the kid’s wrists to ensure he could barely move an inch without suffering terrible pain in his shoulders and elbows.

“What happened?” the leader repeated as he continued to pick at the knots, trying to block out the sound of Jimin’s cries as he worked. “Who did this? Where are the others?”

“Men …” Jimin squeaked through sobs, sniffing at the snot he was unable to wipe away due to the restraints Namjoon was still struggling to loosen. “Men came … Took … Took Yoongi-hyung and … and Jungkook …”

Namjoon froze, his breath catching in his throat as his entire body seemed to turn to ice.

Someone had broken into their dorm. Had attacked Jimin. Had taken Yoongi and Jungkook. And he hadn’t been here. Their leader had been at a stupid, insignificant conference meeting with his management company, discussing something irrelevant that could have been decided without him being present.

If he’d been here, he could have stopped it. He could have saved Yoongi and Jungkook.

“Where are the others?” he choked out, forcing himself to continue with his interrogation as he finally released Jimin’s hands and swivelled back around to the front of the chair to work on his feet. “Jimin, where are the others? Hobi? Jin-hyung? Tae?”

He was getting desperate but as the final rope fell limply to the ground and Jimin fastened his arms around his leader’s neck, Namjoon realised that he wasn’t going to be getting anything else out of him until he’d calmed down.

“Chim, breathe with me,” he soothed, rubbing his hand up and down Jimin’s back as the boy buried his nose in his hyung’s neck and soaked the skin with tears. “Breathe slowly, Chimmie. In and out. That’s it. In and out.”

At long last, Jimin seemed to succumb to exhaustion and his hyperventilation sputtered into soft whimpers, but he did relinquish his hold on Namjoon so the two of them could move over to the sofa, away from that chair.

“Jimin,” the leader said for what felt like the thousandth time. “Please tell me where the others are.”

“Upstairs,” was the glorified answer he finally received.

“Okay … Okay … stay here.”

Namjoon leapt to his feet, starting towards the stairs but Jimin’s hand shot out to fasten a death grip on his hyung’s wrist. The look in his dongsaeng’s eyes broke his heart: that terror, the desperation that screamed _please don’t leave me._

“I’ll be right back,” Namjoon promised, reaching down to wipe a stray tear from Jimin’s face. “I promise, Jimin, I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t let himself look back at the snivelling figure on the couch as he pounded up the stairs, his heart rate charging at a billion miles per hour as his mind was picturing whatever horrors would await him in whichever room these monsters had stuffed his members.

There had been no sounds since he’d arrived. Jimin had been able to call out to him, albeit with difficulty, but he had been conscious and unhurt. Neither Taehyung, Hoseok nor Seokjin had made a single noise and that was the most terrifying thing of all.

Except for the knowledge that Yoongi and Jungkook were gone.

He tried two rooms before he hit the most gruesome jackpot he had ever been awarded with. It was all he could do to keep his breakfast down because the sight he was presented with was so far from “pretty” that it was coming back round the other side.

Hoseok was slumped against the bed, eyes closed, skin greying and breathing shallow. The only oxygen capable of filtering into his airway entered through his nose due to the cloth that was bound around his head, slipping in between his teeth and pushing his tongue to the back of his mouth. Just like Jimin, his hands were tied behind his back and his feet were trussed at the ankles, preventing any escape attempt.

It chilled Namjoon to the bone, thinking someone could have done that to another human being, and he found himself silently praying to a God he had never really believed in as he flung himself on the ground beside Hoseok’s prone body, fingers scrabbling for a pulse at his throat.

He almost screamed when his friend’s eyes snapped open and his entire body jerked with terror as it tried to scoot away from the hands that roamed over it without permission. His eyes were wide, slightly unfocused, and it was only when Namjoon registered the trickle of blood sourcing a stream from his hairline that he realised Hoseok probably didn’t recognise him.

“Hobi!” he cried out, taking the injured boy by the shoulders and trying to hold him still. “Calm down, Hobi! It’s just me! It’s okay!”

Hoseok finally seemed to process the current state of events he was in and his eyes fluttered closed as a groan of pain rumbled from deep within his throat. Namjoon wasted no time in ripping the gag from his mouth and pulling him into his chest so that he could reach behind him and untie his hands.

“You’re alright, Hobi,” he whispered. “I’m right here. You’re just fine. You’re okay.”

“Ji …” came Hoseok’s feeble retort, words slurred and unclear before he tried again. “Jin … Jin … Jin … Jin …”

The knots gave around his wrists and his arms flopped uselessly to his sides, head still resting against Namjoon’s chest in his concussed weakness but now there was a new kind of fear in the leader’s gut. Why was Hoseok repeating Jin’s name?

“Hobi, where’s Jin-hyung?” he pressed urgently, taking Hoseok’s face in his hands and giving it as gentle a shake as he could while still trying to jerk him back to reality. The guilt was paramount. Hoseok was hurt, confused and in pain but Namjoon couldn’t call an ambulance until he knew where the others were. “Tell me where Jin-hyung is, Hobi!”

“There …”

Namjoon turned in the direction Hoseok seemed to be trying to indicate with a head that kept rolling lifelessly on his shoulders, and an audible cry of horror slid from his throat, his body plunged into icy temperatures.

“Oh, God …”

Jin was lying on the floor with his back against the wall and his chin tilted upwards, exposing the paper white skin of his throat. His eyes were closed, his body completely motionless, his fingers gently curled from where his hands were stretching out across the carpet, as though they had been reaching for Hoseok. He wasn’t tied up like the others were, and now Namjoon could see why.

The front of his shirt was drenched in blood.

“Seokjin-hyung!”

Namjoon propelled himself across the floor, panicked voice rising at least an octave as he screamed his brother’s name. His hand slid beneath Jin’s head as he lifted it into his lap, eyes roaming jerkily over the lifeless body in search for the source of the scarlet swamp he now realised was slowly seeping through the rug.

“Hyung, open your eyes! Please, hyung, open your eyes!”

Jin made no response, not even an acknowledgement of Namjoon’s existence and the leader found himself instinctively drawn to the eldest’s shirt as he wrenched it upwards and had to resist the urge to vomit.

Two slices in porcelain skin, leaking bodily fluid in a steady stream of scarlet poison, were carved into Jin’s stomach. He’d been stabbed. Twice.

“JIMIN!” Namjoon bellowed, tears pricking his eyes as he clamped a hand down on the wounds and tried not to think about the sticky substance that dribbled over his fingers. “JIMIN, I NEED YOU!”

He shot a glance over his shoulder to check on Hoseok and felt his heart lurch when he saw his friend had keeled over onto the floor, feet still bound, finally succumbing to the unconsciousness his concussed state had craved. Namjoon could see his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, but that was the only indication he had that Hoseok was still alive.

His attention returned to the man he cradled in his arms like the world would end if he let go, his mind racing, his stomach somersaulting, his tongue burning in his throat.

Yoongi had been taken. Jungkook had been taken. Jin had been stabbed. Hoseok was unconscious. Jimin wasn’t responding to his cries. And he still had no idea where Taehyung was.

“Jimin, please,” he was begging, voice barely above a whisper now as Jin’s head lolled lifelessly in the crook of his arm. “Please, Jimin.”

And then Jimin staggered into the room, his face paper white and his footsteps unsteady. He was hyperventilating, cradling his bruised wrists to his chest and there was a dribble of vomit at the corner of his mouth. He took one look at the sight before him and lunged back into the hallway to empty the remaining contents of his stomach onto the floor.

“Jimin, call an ambulance!” Namjoon pleaded, unable to see through tears and unable to move to wipe them away due to the pressure he was applying to Jin’s abdomen. “Please, Jimin, I need you!”

Now he was hysterical, unable to process everything that had happened in the last ten minutes, and for a terrifying moment of brief panic, he thought that Jimin wasn’t going to come through. But then the kid was crawling towards him, face drenched with fresh tears, and phone clutched to his ear.

“Hobi …” Namjoon choked, pointing desperately over at Hoseok’s unconscious body. “Check on Hobi …”

Jimin nodded as the call finally connected and he started whimpering down the line to the 119 operator, free hand clasping at Hoseok’s face in an attempt to shake him awake. It had no effect.

“I need help,” he was crying into the speaker as Namjoon closed his eyes and prayed harder than he had ever prayed in 25 years. “We … We were attacked … My friends are hurt … Two of them are gone … I … No, they’re breathing but … Jin-hyung’s bleeding and Hobi-hyung won’t wake up and … Yes, now, please … I don’t know where Tae is … please help us … please …”

“Please help us,” Namjoon repeated as he pulled Jin’s head into the crook of his neck and held him as tightly as he could in the hopes that he could just take all of his hyung’s pain. “Please help us.”


	2. The Second Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups of SEVENTEEN)

          Seungcheol was drifting off to sleep, chin gradually gravitating towards his chest as he listened to the soft voices drifting from the TV set that no one was really paying attention to. They were either invested in their phones, their whispered conversations with each other or the warm embrace of unconsciousness luring them into its clutches. 

Only a handful of the group were gathered in the living room, the rest of them having already retired to their rooms at some point during the evening, but none of that registered with Seungcheol the moment his front door was kicked open and his world blew up around him.

He was still half asleep, groggy and disorientated, as he scrambled to his feet to face half a dozen masked men flooding his home with guns drawn and knives flashing in the dim light.

“What the fuck?” he screamed, his body ordering him to do something – run or fight or lunge for a phone – but he was too terrified to move his feet. There were people in his house. With weapons. “What are you doing?”

The gunshot was the loudest thing he’d ever heard. It shook his very soul as he clapped his hands over his ears, knees almost buckling with the force of the reverberation. Eyes watering, he looked around frantically, trying to find the source of the noise in the desperate hope that no one had been hit.

Then he saw the firearm aimed at the ceiling, a bullet hole in the plaster still smoking from its assault. And when the order followed, he obeyed without question because now it was clear to everyone that these people were not playing around.

“Everybody, on the ground now!”

Seungcheol hit the floor within a split’s second, his hand shooting out instinctively and bringing Minghao down with him. He reached an arm over his dongsaeng’s head and tried to partially crawl on top of him in the hopes he would become a human shield. He could only hope his fellow hyungs were doing the same as he watched them all diving to the carpet in his peripheral vision.

There was a muttering above him, a gruff voice counting the bodies that lay at his feet.

“Six,” he grunted, clearly addressing one of his cohorts because the man in question raised the gun once more and fired a second warning shot into the ceiling before raising his voice to carry into every corner of the house.

“I want thirteen people on the ground in front of me before I count to five!” he bellowed and Seungcheol felt his heart in his throat, Minghao’s panicked body trembling beneath him. “Or I start shooting!”

Seungcheol wished he was stronger. He wished he wasn’t terrified for his life and the lives of his friends. And he wished more than anything that he could be brave enough to leap to his feet and tackle at least one of these guys, to prevent them from hurting anyone he cared about.

But he was none of those things.

“One!”

Some part of him didn’t want the others to come down. He wanted them to stay concealed in whatever room they were supposed to feel safe within. But at the same time, he knew somebody was going to get seriously hurt if his group didn’t comply.

“Two!”

“Alright!” came a yell from the top of the stairs and Seungcheol felt Minghao’s breath hitch from underneath him. Joshua was the one who was shouting. “We’re coming! Just don’t shoot them!”

The steps were creaking, wooden structure groaning beneath the weight of seven people as they descended to what could very possibly be their deaths. Seungcheol couldn’t look up at them. He couldn’t look up at them because he couldn’t see the fear that would be staring back at him.

They would expect him to procure some solution out of thin air that would save them. But he couldn’t do that. And he couldn’t show them that he couldn’t do that.

“On the ground,” came the repeated order and from the rustling that followed, Seungcheol knew the others had obeyed without question.

“Shame, really,” one of the intruders growled from above him. “I felt like putting a bullet in a body today.”

Something wet trickled over Seungcheol’s hand and he realised for the first time that Minghao was crying. It made him furious – terrified yet furious – that these people had instilled so much fear in a group of people so young. And he still didn’t know what they wanted.

He raised his head and, as though there were some magnetic connection that lured them towards each other, his gaze met Jeonghan’s. The second eldest was virtually on top of Chan, both arms shielding the youngest’s head from potential harm. The two of them stared at each other, trying to silently communicate an unspoken message they didn’t even know existed.

Then Seungcheol saw the man who seemed to be the leader move to stand above Jeonghan and Chan, his firearm resting comfortably in his hand as though he felt at home with the familiar sensation of an explosive in his grasp. He was looking down at the pair on the ground with interest, narrowed eyes, as though inspecting them.

And then he gave the order that chilled Seungcheol’s bones to ice.

“These two.”

The leader watched with fear laced through every pore as arms shot out and plucked Jeonghan and Chan from the safety of the ground. Chan yelled out, kicking and thrashing and struggling in the hold that tightened around his waist, and Jeonghan was no different, fighting tooth and nail in the hopes that an elbow or a knee would catch something delicate and sensitive.

But the intruders were too strong.

“Let me go!” Jeonghan screamed, and it was only when Seungcheol watched his best friend being slammed headfirst into a wall just to quieten his struggle that he finally snapped out of whatever paralytic had been administered to silence him.

“Don’t touch them!” he roared, unaware of where the newfound strength had come from, but desperate to protect and defend as he dived towards the man who was picking Jeonghan’s dazed body up off the floor. “I said don’t touch them!”

He attacked the first abductor he saw, throwing himself into the broad back and punching in every place he could. The arms relinquished their grip on Jeonghan and the boy slithered to the ground with a thump, groaning softly as a stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and Seungcheol felt victory on the horizon.

That was before the man whipped around, the butt of a gun finding its way into the side of his face. He cried out in pain, thudding to his knees on the living room carpet with his ears ringing and his eyes watering.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chan – still screaming bloody murder and fighting for all he was worth – being forced out of the front door, and there were faint whimpers echoing in every direction from those still lying facedown on the carpet.

“Don’t touch them …” Seungcheol repeated as he threw out an arm to grab onto the cabinet but regaining vertical status was almost impossible with the dizziness that was taking his body by storm. “Don’t … Don’t touch them …”

Jeonghan was right in front of him, still bleeding, still stunned, still slumped against the wall, and Seungcheol reached for him. He didn’t know what he was going to do, how he was going to save him from these people or how he was supposed to retrieve Chan from the clutches that had snatched him, but all he knew was that he was a leader and leaders were meant to protect.  

Then the gun went off.

So many people were screaming, and Seungcheol had no idea if he was included in that collective as every single cell in his body exploded into flame.

It burned. It burned so badly that he could barely breathe. White hot. Stinging. Throbbing. Everywhere. He couldn’t see through the lights popping in front of his corneas and somehow, the floor had rushed up to meet him as he lay pressed against it with sweat streaming into his eyes and something sticky against his shirt.

The world was fading out around him. A face swam in his vision, panicked and fear-stricken, but he didn’t know who it was. Hands clamped down on his shoulder and he let out a wail of agony as lightning bolts ricocheted through his torso.

His head rolled to the side, muscles in his neck going lax and useless, and he stretched out a hand towards the light he knew sourced from the outside world. Silhouettes were moving towards it. A huge body carrying a much smaller one like a ragdoll, its head hanging lifelessly and arms swinging with the movement.

“Any of you follow us and we’ll make you wish we’d killed them.”

That was the last sentence he heard before darkness started creeping into the corners of his vision. Somebody above him was shouting, their tone desperate and pleading and he recognised the words ‘stay’, ‘awake’ and ‘please’ in a voice that sounded remarkably like Wonwoo’s.

His brother was begging him not to go. Not to fall asleep. Not to leave them. But Seungcheol had failed. He had let them take Jeonghan and Chan. He’d let them go. He should have put up a better fight.

It was the determination to save them that kept him fighting unconsciousness. Some part of his mind was still lucid enough to tell him that if he fell asleep, he may never wake up, and then he would never know what happened to them.

He didn’t care if he died. He only cared that they lived. And that was his motivation not to let his body give into the pain. His head was rolling around on his shoulders, eyes sliding in and out of focus, and a hand was wiping sweat – or tears, he no longer knew – from his face.

Voices were calling softly. Familiar voices. But they were far away, shrouded by shadows and submerged in murky water. He was swimming through it, trying to get to them, trying to reach out his arms and hold them close so that they couldn’t be taken too, but everything was too heavy.

_“… somebody please call an ambulance …”_

_“…_ _they took our phones …”_

_“…he’s going to die …”_

They’d lost hope, Seungcheol thought, as his mind circled the drain of unconsciousness. They didn’t think he was going to make it. They didn’t think he was strong enough because he hadn’t been able to protect Chan and Jeonghan. They had lost faith in their leader, so there was no point for him to hold on any longer.

They would be okay on their own. They would get a new leader. A better leader. A leader that would be able to find the members who had been ripped from their ranks. They didn’t need a broken failure. They didn’t need him.

He saw Jeonghan’s smile.

He heard Chan’s laugh.

And then he closed his eyes.  


	3. The Third Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Kim Jongin (Kai from EXO)

          Jongin knew that Minseok had his headphones in. Jongin knew that Minseok was trying to go to sleep after a ridiculously long day of gruelling dance rehearsals. Jongin knew that Minseok did not want to be disturbed.

Jongin still thought it was a good idea to insert a loose piece of thread from his sweater into Minseok’s ear.

“What the fuck?” the eldest spluttered, eyes flying open as his arms shot up to defend himself from the offending twizzle of navy blue fibres.

The moment he saw Jongin laughing at him, however, he relaxed but the scowl did not leave his face as he settled back in his chair with his arms folded protectively over his chest in his best grumpy-eldest impression.

“One day,” he grumbled, voice laden with fatigue. “You are all going to regret how badly you treated me and you will beg for my forgiveness on your knees.”

“Keep dreaming,” Sehun interjected from Jongin’s other side, dodging the groggy fist that Minseok threw his way.

Jongin caught Chanyeol’s eye through the rearview mirror from where the elder was sat in the front seat alongside their company driver and both of them shared a subtle smirk. Minseok was the human embodiment of sunshine and buttercups but when he got tired, he turned into someone he thought would be threatening. It was really just cute.

“No one understands me,” came the final retort as the eldest pulled his hood up over his head and tugged at the drawstrings so that the black fabric closed around his face. “I’ll rule the world someday.”

“But before then,” Chanyeol started and Jongin already knew he was going to be in fits of laughter in the next ten seconds. “We have every right to …”

Jongin never got to experience that fit of laughter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the monstrous black vehicle speeding towards them through the window, and his mind registered that they were about to be hit just seconds before it felt like every bone in his body shifted positions.

Minseok was the closest to the collision and Jongin heard his yell of shock and pain and fright before he himself was slammed into Sehun on his other side. Somewhere in the front of the car, Chanyeol was shouting something but Jongin’s ears were ringing and the world felt like it was spinning faster and faster and faster.

And when it came to a stop, Jongin didn’t even notice. He briefly wondered through a pounding head and a trickle of scarlet down the side of his face if the vehicle was lying on its side as he seemed to be on top of Sehun, his heart in his throat and his entire body bruised and battered.

There wasn’t even time to regain his composure before the doors on either side were being wrenched open and hands were everywhere.

Jongin tried to differentiate faces and identify their saviours as either paramedics or good Samaritans that had just happened to have been passing by when they saw the crash, and he even opened his mouth to thank them before he felt Sehun being ripped from beneath him.

“Wha …?” he mumbled, disorientated and panicked as he tried to reach out and snag onto the maknae’s clothing in a desperate attempt to keep him in the car.

They had just been hit with the kind of force that was enough to shatter bones. Sehun could be hurt and therefore these people shouldn’t be moving him. They could do more damage than had already been done. They could hurt him worse. That was bad.

“Stop!” he called out, thankful that his voice seemed to be returning to him. “Stop … Don’t …”

The pain wasn’t letting up, wasn’t permitting him to form coherent sentences or even see anything that wasn’t blurry and smudged like watercolours in the rain. He just knew that Sehun wasn’t beside him any longer and as he threw out an arm to the side, he couldn’t feel Minseok either.

And he panicked.

The doors on either side of him were still open, gaping wide chasms for the wind to swoop in and nip at skin that was already torn and bleeding. Jongin barely even registered the pain in his knee as he wrestled with his seatbelt until the buckle finally clicked and that thin leather strap released him to the outside world.

He tumbled onto concrete, crying out in pain when he landed roughly and his ankle twisted beneath him. Everything was hurting, everything was spinning, everything was confusing, and as he looked around him, trying to blink through the lights popping in front of his eyes, he expected to see the phosphorescent flanks of ambulances and police cars.

But all he saw were black vans.

One was crumpled like an accordion, its hood having been crushed from the impact it had made against their company vehicle. But the other had its back doors wide open, exposing the empty insides that would not be empty for long.

The men had masks but Jongin wouldn’t have been able to identify their faces through the rippling images that kept crossing across his vision as whatever severity of concussion he seemed to have sustained worsened. They were all huge, he knew that, but there wasn’t a single distinguishing feature that he could see as he crawled towards them.

Broken glass dug into the flesh of his palms and he felt the searing of snagged skin on his knees. He was yelling – at least, he thought he was yelling – out at the people retreating towards that empty van in the desperate hope that they would release the captives they were taking with them, but he either went unheard or ignored.

He watched with infuriating helplessness as Minseok’s unconscious body was thrown into the offending vehicle, his head making a sickening thump as it collided with the metal floor. Sehun was still struggling, still awake and fighting, but he was rapidly losing the battle against men that were so much bigger and so much stronger than he was.

“Stop …” Jongin pleaded, still trying to drag himself forwards even though whatever logic was left in his brain told him it was fruitless. “Please … Please … Stop …”

His hearing was slowly starting to return and he registered for the first time that Sehun was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was frightened and he was panicking and he was _screaming._

Sehun never screamed. If he was afraid, he just went quiet. Deathly quiet. But now he was making as much noise as humanly possible and Jongin knew he needed to protect him. It was his job as the older brother to protect his maknae and yet he was useless. Completely and utterly useless.

“Stop!” he cried out, tears mingling with the blood and the sweat and the grime that coated his face. “Please, stop! Please … Please, stop!”

An engine roared, an exhaust pipe spewed a mouthful of fumes into his face and Jongin collapsed onto the tarmac, choking and spluttering, as he watched that black van speeding off into the darkness.

He tried to read the number plate but his eyes were closing and he was too weak to keep them open. His phone was ringing in his pocket and he was surprised it wasn’t smashed beyond repair as he somehow managed to turf it onto the concrete beside him that was still littered with glass fragments and his own blood.

It took several tries before he found that green button through the cracked screen, addled mind struggling to process the simplest of thoughts because the worst of things had just happened. The worst possible nightmare. And nothing seemed to be okay anymore.

“Hey, Jongin?” came the voice from the speakers, calm and at peace in its blissful ignorance. “Could you just stop off at that Chinese place and ask the driver to grab some food? We’re starving and I can’t be bothered to cook.”

Jongin just cried. He laid there in the middle of the road between two totalled cars, on a platter of broken glass, with every part of his body screaming for pain relief, and he cried. His sobs came out strangled as they grated against his vocal chords, each sound becoming more agonising to produce in his disorientated despair.

“Jongin? Jongin, are you okay?”

No. He was not okay. He was so far from okay that he was coming back around the other side. He was hurt. That wasn’t okay. He was dying. That wasn’t okay. Men had hurt him. That wasn’t okay. Men had hurt Chanyeol, too. That wasn’t okay. And men had taken Minseok and Sehun. That definitely wasn’t okay.

“Jongin, talk to me! What’s happening?”

He recognised Junmyeon’s voice but everything else was a jumble of sounds and emotions. All he knew was that he had failed to save the people most precious to him and now he didn’t even have the strength to claw his way to his feet and go back to check on how badly Chanyeol had been hurt.

“Hyung …” he managed to choke out, tasting copper between his lips and only crying harder.

“Jongin, you’re scaring me, what’s happening?”

“Hyung …” Jongin tried again, frustrated beyond imagination that he couldn’t seem to form the syllables he wanted. “Hyung … I tried to stop them …”

And he had tried. He had tried so, so hard. But not hard enough.

“Stop who?” came the panicked shouting from the other end, and now there was another voice joining in but he had no idea who that was. His only priority was conveying the news so that Junmyeon could do what he couldn’t: save them. “What’s happening?”

“They took them.”

Those words alone felt like another car crash. They wrenched at his gut and tore his intestines out through his bleeding mouth in the excruciating reminder of his terrible failure. Those men had taken his family – his hyung and his maknae – and he had barely put up a fight.

It didn’t matter that Junmyeon was still shouting questions because Jongin had shut down. The blue flashing lights were hurting his eyes and so he closed them and he let the darkness take him and he reminded himself one last time that he had failed.

That they had taken them.


	4. The Fourth Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Donghyuck (Haechan of NCT)

Donghyuck was buzzing as he stumbled off the stage, away from the sound of screeching and cheering, finding that he already missed his fans despite having only just stood in front of them with his arms stretched wide and a smile plastered over his face.

Sweat clung to his skin, leeching his shirt to his back and his hair to his forehead, and his chest was heaving with residual energy and adrenaline, but he wouldn’t have exchanged this feeling for the world. It made him so powerful, reminded him how much he was loved and appreciated, and this particular night was the first he hadn’t been brought to tears by the end of the concert.

He gratefully received a towel from one of the staff members and swiped at the droplets rolling down his face, muttering a hurried thank you before he felt hands pulling at the hem of his shirt to get to the microphone pack strapped to his abdomen.

Yuta was beside him, panting with exhaustion, but looking just as happy as he raised his arms to allow the stagehand to fiddle with the tech that was fastened around his body. He met Donghyuck’s eye and gave him the thumbs up, too tired to utter any words but needing to tell his little brother that he’d done a good job.

“There’s a problem with your microphone,” the man behind him spoke up and Donghyuck peered over his shoulder to see the guy struggling with the black box. “Can you move into a better light so I can fix it?”

Donghyuck nodded his permission just as he noticed Yuta seemed to be having the same problem. The older boy slung an arm around the younger’s shoulders, giving him a congratulatory squeeze as they trailed after the staff members into a side corridor where the lights were brighter and the air wasn’t as stuffy.

That’s when everything went bad.

Donghyuck had expected a wire to be stuck in his clothes or something similar but the second that door swung shut and secured that barrier between them and the rest of their members, security and managers, he felt the microphone pack being ripped off him with all the ferocity of a wild animal.

“Hey!” he cried out as the expensive gadget was tossed roughly aside, skittering across the floor in fragmented pieces. “What are you …?”

He whipped around and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, his heart stop pumping, his breath catch in his throat and every molecule in his body solidify to concrete. Every instinct within him whispered to run, to fight, to scream, to do something but he knew that the second he did, his hyung’s blood would be spilled all over the floor.

Yuta was on his knees, jaw clenched and teeth gritted both with pain and with fury as one of the men Donghyuck had wrongly assumed to be a staff member had a hand fisted in his hair, keeping his head pulled back to expose his throat.

The knife was glinting, almost unrealistically, in the cheap corridor lights as it wavered tantalisingly close to Yuta’s carotid artery. Donghyuck didn’t need to be a medical professional to know that one flick of the wrist would end his brother’s life in a matter of minutes.

“Don’t scream,” came the first order and Donghyuck nodded slowly, his eyes locked with Yuta’s in the desperate hope that his hyung would have some way of getting out of this. He didn’t.

“What do you want me to do?” he whispered, trying to ignore the tears that were starting to sting his eyes. He was not going to cry in front of these people. He was not going to give them that satisfaction.

“Take your jacket off.”

“No!” Yuta yelled, desperately trying to climb to his feet only to have his hair seized in a tighter grip and one of his arms twisted behind his back. But even through his hiss of pain, he still spoke. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

By now, Donghyuck was trembling all over and he had to resist the urge to reach out and hold onto the wall before his knees gave and he crashed pathetically onto the floor. There were two men right in front of him, masked and armed, one of them holding his hyung and the other telling him to remove his clothes.

But then:

“Relax,” the gruff voice growled out as its owner shrugged the backpack off his shoulders and pulled out a black hoodie. “Just put this on.”

Donghyuck wanted to collapse with relief, a sensation that then confused him considering his current predicament. But nevertheless, he shrugged off his bright green jacket, discarded it on the floor and slipped the inconspicuous garment over his head.

“Now these.”

A mask and a baseball cap were tossed into his arms and he slid them on without a single word of complaint or protest even though he had a feeling he knew what they were doing: hiding him. Making him impossible to recognise, and his heartrate started to pick up as he realised what was happening to Yuta was probably going to happen to him as they forced his hyung to do the same.

He waited for the hand around his throat or the kick to the back of the knees that would send him to the floor but it never came. The first guy – the only one to have spoken as of yet – advanced on him and he backed up against the wall to get as far away from that rancid breath smell as possible.

“Now you’re going to listen carefully and do everything I tell you to or I will not hesitate to carve some really pretty patterns in your hyung’s perfect body, okay?”

Donghyuck’s eyes shot to Yuta and he was stunned to see his hyung crying. Maybe it was the fear, maybe it was the anger or maybe it was the pain of being held so tightly, but Yuta was already starting to break and if Donghyuck didn’t comply, these people would make sure he did more than that.

“Okay,” he appeased at once, nodding frantically. “Okay. You don’t have to hurt him.”

The man before him was wearing a mask but he could still see the smile that stretched to his eyes. He imagined it was an evil smile. A sadistic one. One that said ‘I’m going to enjoy tearing you and your hyung to pieces’. And it sent a shiver of dread up his spine.

“You’re going to walk out of here with us,” that gruff voice purred out, and Donghyuck had known this was coming – had known this was an abduction – and yet the words still paralysed his breathing muscles into useless slabs of fibre and gristle. “You’re not going to try to run, you’re not going to try to scream and you’re not going to try to send any signals to anyone you happen to pass or I will strap you down and make you watch as I tear your hyung’s skin off, piece by piece.”

Donghyuck nodded again, his head starting to hurt from all the jerky movements it was making, and the first tear slipped from between his eyelids on its pearly journey down his cheek.

He wanted to run, he wanted to scream and he wanted to do anything possible to escape this nightmare. But if he did, Yuta would die and he would never be able to live with himself. It was an impossible situation and there was absolutely nothing he could do but comply with these monsters’ desires in order to keep his hyung alive.

“Okay,” he whimpered. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

“Good boy.”

A hand reached up to pat him on the top of the head and he cringed in disgust and fear. He wanted Taeyong. He wanted Taeyong right now. Or Johnny. Or Taeil. Or Mark. Just anyone who would be able to save him. But there was no one.

“He’s just a kid,” Yuta was pleading, still on his knees with his head wrenched backwards until it was almost bent 90 degrees. “If it’s money you want, we can give it to you. But you don’t have to take him. I’d be enough. Just take me and you can get your ransom exactly the same way. But don’t take him. I’m begging you. Please. Don’t take …”

Donghyuck had to clamp a hand across his mouth to stop himself from screaming as he watched Yuta’s head being rammed into the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Tears were cascading down his face but he didn’t dare move for fear he would make things worse.

Yuta slumped to the ground, unconscious and bleeding, the wound on his forehead having left a masterpiece of scarlet smears on the wall beside them. His chest was still moving, slowly inhaling and exhaling so prove his lungs were still working, but his eyes were closed and one side of his face was already reddened and slick.

“You see?” the first guy growled at Donghyuck. “We’re not messing around, kid. So you’re going to cooperate with us, right? You’re going to be a good little boy and do what we say so that we don’t have to hurt your hyung again, right?”

Donghyuck didn’t trust himself to speak. He could barely see through the watering haze over his eyes and he was certain that the fingers he had pressed to his lips were the only things keeping him from vomiting all over the floor. So he just nodded one final time.

“Sit,” he was ordered, and he obeyed without question, allowing his legs to liquify beneath him and his body to slide down the wall until he was curled up on the floor.

And he watched as the suitcase was pulled from a storage cupboard to their left. It was a large one, at least 4x2ft, with a padlock that connected the two zips together. And he watched as the duct tape was pulled out and Yuta was kicked onto his stomach so his hands could be bound behind his back and his mouth could be sealed shut.

And he watched as his hyung was manhandled into that suitcase. It wasn’t much of a squeeze, there was plenty of room, but then those zips fastened it shut and that padlock was secured and Donghyuck found himself sobbing at the thought of Yuta waking up inside that thing to find he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak and couldn’t get out.

And then he got to his feet, as pliant and docile as they wanted him to be, and he walked beside them and the suitcase the second guy pulled behind him. And no one gave them a second glance. They were all too busy with their own tasks to notice the abduction of two people they were supposed to be protecting.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did wonder about using Jisung but then I realised that I don't know how graphic this story will be so I didn't want to include minors.


	5. Mass Abduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Byun Baekhyun (EXO)

          Baekhyun had said he was going to get something to eat when he left the others at Jongin’s bedside after the boy had finally succumbed to the morphine and fallen asleep, but halfway through the private hospital corridors, he had sunk onto a chair and buried his face in his hands.

Chanyeol was in surgery. Ruptured spleen, major internal bleeding, broken ribs etcetera, etcetera. Jongin had a dislocated knee and a pretty spectacular concussion but ever since they’d arrived, panting and panicked, in the hospital, the kid had been shouting slurred and unintelligible words.

They tried to calm him but he was hysterical, crying and screaming and fighting the medical personnel that were trying to hold him down, and even when Junmyeon had taken him in his arms and held him as tightly as he could, Jongin had only managed to choke out three coherent words.

_“They took them.”_

Those words alone had been enough to send shivers wriggling up and down Baekhyun’s spine as his brain instantly procured every single possible scenario that could play out before them. If Jongin was right – and considering there had been no sign of Minseok or Sehun at the crash site he probably was – he didn’t want to know what that would mean.

He didn’t want to know if it was a ransom demand, some sick prank from their management company or a crazy-obsessed fan who had taken things way too far. He didn’t want to know anything because as soon as he did, the statistics would be rolling through his mind.

The chance of survival. The chance of recovery. The chance of ever getting them back.

He didn’t want to know.

There was the squeak of trainers of polished floors and Baekhyun raised his head, expecting to see a doctor with a stern expression and a clipboard or one of his members coming to find where he had run off to, but instead he felt shock burning through his system.

“Taehyung?”

Taehyung skidded to a stop, puffy red eyes snapping to Baekhyun’s face and the older boy could tell it was taking several seconds for the kid to process what he was seeing. He stumbled, throwing out an arm to catch himself on the wall and Baekhyun wasted no time in leaping to his feet, grabbing hold of the larger body and guiding it gently to a chair.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice cracking from lack of use in the last few hours as he crouched in front of Taehyung, taking in the boy’s jittery fingers, tear-glazed eyes and hitched breaths. “What … What happened? What are you doing here? Are you hurt? Are your members here?”

He wasn’t wearing any shoes. His feet were scratched and one of his toes was bleeding but he didn’t even seem to realise. He was just sitting there, trembling all over as pearly droplets continued to plough steady tracks down his cheeks.

“Taehyung,” Baekhyun tried again, taking hold of those quivering hands and squeezing timidly. “What happened?”

It took several more moments before Taehyung seemed to gather the ability to speak, and when he did, his voice was rough as sandpaper and vibrating with the terror of whatever trauma he’d experienced that had turned him into such a nervous wreck.

“There was …” he started, a sharp breath catching in his throat and jerking his entire body. “There were men in … in the house.”

Baekhyun tensed all over, but he didn’t react. He didn’t want to scare Taehyung from sharing his story, so he stayed silent from his position still crouched in front of the chair.

“Jimin and Jung … Jungkook were downstairs when they … came and … and … and Y-Y-Yoongi-hyung told me … to go to the bathroom. He said … He said to l-l-lock the door and not come … not come out until he came to get … me.”

He let out a stifled sob before continuing.

“I … I shouldn’t have gone. I should … I should have stayed and pro … protected them but I … I just hid and … and I heard … I heard them screaming … Jin-hyung and Jimin and … and Jungkook … They were all … all screaming and I di … I didn’t do anything.”

Baekhyun hadn’t realised that he was crying, too, until he tasted salt on his lips. He swatted at the tears furiously before taking Taehyung’s hand in a tighter grip and squeezing hard to tell him that it was okay to continue.

“And … And then they just stopped. They all … Everything stopped and … and I waited for Yoongi-hyung to come … and get me … but he didn’t … He never came … He never came … He never came … and I stayed there and I heard yelling but I was … I was too scared to move so I … I stayed there and … and when I finally came out, everyone … they were all gone and there … there was bl-blood on the car … carpet and I don’t … I don’t know what … what happened.”

Baekhyun couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t hyperventilating like Taehyung was but he was drowning on the inside. Invisibly. Silently. Dying.

They had been attacked, they had lost Minseok and Sehun, and now by the sound of it, Taehyung’s group had suffered the same tragedy. In the same night. There was absolutely no way that was a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

What if those men had taken all of them? Seokjin and Jimin and the rest? What if they had left Taehyung behind because they couldn’t find him? What if they had left Chanyeol and Jongin behind because they had been injured too badly in the crash?

Were they planning to kill them? Hurt them? Sell them? There were endless possibilities and now Baekhyun was lost in this realm of terror and he wasn’t helping anybody. So he took a deep breath. He steeled himself. He gave his face an internal slap. And then he acted like a hyung.

“Taehyung,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb backwards and forwards over Taehyung’s hand. “I think you’re in shock. You walked here, right?”

Taehyung nodded deftly.

“Okay,” Baekhyun soothed, glancing around for any sign of a call button or a telephone or something he could use to summon medical professionals.

A door opened at the end of the corridor and a man – a boy, really – in pale blue scrubs emerged with his nose buried in a chunk of paper charts. He didn’t even look twenty. More like fourteen. But Baekhyun would take what he could get as long as it came to helping Taehyung.

“Hey!” he called out, apologising softly when his raised tone caused Taehyung to jump in his seat. “Can I have some help here?”

The boy looked up and Baekhyun had to give the kid credit. He didn’t panic like he’d been expecting him to. He sped forwards with his old sneakers rubbing against the polished porcelain floors and dropped his papers onto the chair beside Taehyung before he knelt down and started his inspection.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, reaching out for the traumatised boy’s wrist and withdrawing when Taehyung shrunk away from the touch.

“I think he’s in shock or something,” Baekhyun filled in, giving his friend’s thigh a reassuring squeeze. “He just … He just went through a lot.”

The nurse – doctor? – asked no further questions. Instead, he procured a wheelchair from seemingly thin air and Baekhyun helped transfer Taehyung’s dead weight into the contraption before they were speeding down the hallway and into the emergency room.

It felt like he blinked and Taehyung was gone, valeted off into a cubicle to be poked and prodded and probably sedated before he managed to give himself a heart attack. Baekhyun was just on the verge of following when the commotion behind him had his head turning on instinct.

He flattened himself against the wall to make way for the hospital gurney as the paramedics charged past, bellowing orders and symptoms and instructions over the top of the bloodied body that lay motionless and limp atop the scarlet sheets.

Baekhyun caught sight of an oxygen mask, a wad of contaminated gauze and a chest that was heaving with alarming frequency before the poor unfortunate soul disappeared through the gigantic wooden doors at the end of the corridor.

A person tried to follow. A man stained crimson with his hands held out in front of him as though he were trying to prevent spreading the disease to the rest of his body. But his shirt was splattered, his jeans were soaked, his face was smudged with the stuff and it was barely possible to see paper-white skin beneath the layers that had been lathered on.

“Wonwoo?”

He hardly knew the boy. They had only spoken a couple of generic greetings to each other but in this moment, it didn’t matter. In this moment, Baekhyun was trying to piece together all this chaos and it only hit him once he recalled the face he had seen pillowed on that gurney.

“Was … Was that Seungcheol?” he stuttered, gaze swapping between Wonwoo’s blood-drenched body and the closed resuscitation room doors. “What … Wonwoo, what the fuck is going on?”

“I …” Wonwoo started, glancing down at his hands and then at his clothes and looking as if he was about to throw up. Baekhyun couldn’t blame him. That was his hyung’s blood he was caked in. “We were just … It happened so fast, Baekhyun. It happened so fast.”

“What did?” Baekhyun shrieked, his voice rising several octaves in his panic.

It surely couldn’t be what he thought it was. There was no way. No one had that kind of power. No one could take so many celebrities in one night. It was impossible. There was no way. No way at all. They couldn’t have …

“Jeonghan-hyung and Chan, they … Seungcheol-hyung tried to stop them.”

And had gotten hurt in the process. Just like Jongin and Chanyeol. Just like Taehyung’s members. Just like them. Exact. Identical.

What was happening? It was terrifying, unrealistic, unbelievable. There was some elaborate plan behind this. There had to have been. It was calculated down to the second. These people – whoever they were, whatever they wanted – knew exactly what they had been doing. They weren’t afraid, they weren’t hesitating and they definitely weren’t fooling around.

“Baekhyun?” Wonwoo started, turning his dazed and shell-shocked eyes on the boy he barely knew and yet now was in the exact same position. “Did … Did they attack you, too?”

Baekhyun nodded slowly, fisting his hand in his shirt in the hopes it would somehow lessen the panic that was steadily growing inside of him. “They took Minseok-hyung and Sehun. And BTS too. I’ve seen Taehyung but I don’t know … I don’t know who they got.”

They stood there, staring at each other, one of them scarlet and one of them paper pale as they tried to comprehend this nightmare because none of this could really be real. It was too movie-like. It sounded too much like a script. It … It just … It wasn’t … It couldn’t …

“Excuse me?” the two heads snapped up, still on alert as they took in the newcomer in his police uniform with the phosphorescent vest and belt laden with a gun and a baton and a radio and all sorts of other policie things. “Jeon Wonwoo and Byun Baekhyun, am I correct?”

They just nodded. Words were something neither of them were capable of.

“I’m going to need a representative from each of your groups to accompany me down to the station. There are some urgent matters we need to discuss regarding the events that have occurred tonight.”

He turned to leave but Baekhyun threw out an arm, his fingers snagging onto a uniformed sleeve in his desperate attempt to get more answers.

“Wait,” he cried pathetically, but it had the desired effect as the man gave him his full attention. “What … What’s happening?”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“We don’t officially have a name for it yet, Sir,” the officer supplied truthfully. “But we’re calling it a mass abduction.”  


	6. Remain Hopeful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Taeyong (NCT)

              Taeyong had promised himself he wouldn’t cry. He had adamantly refused, even when he’d watched the staff members going frantic over the missing members. Even when they had been searching for over an hour and still found nothing. Even when his manager had approached him and finally said they were going to call the police. 

He was not going to cry.

He was going to be strong for his members. For the ones he still had held in a protective grasp and the ones that had been ripped from him. If he broke, it would do nothing but show the others that their leader – the one person they were relying on to stand tall and calm – was just as terrified as they were.

So he was not going to cry.

His manager drove him to the police station as the clock neared midnight and his coat did nothing to combat the cold he fought through on the short journey from the car park to the inside of the precinct.

The officer waiting for him asked his name, took his ID and then ushered him into another room with sofas lining the walls and a table in the centre, flowers dotting the curtains and tissue boxes placed wherever there was space. A relatives’ room. The room where people received the worst news of their lives.

But he was not going to cry.  

At least, that was what he thought told himself right up until he registered the other people who were in that room, already having sunk onto vintage cushions and buried tear-crusted faces in quivering hands.

“No …” Junmyeon whispered the moment he took in the figure of his junior standing in the doorway. “No … Not you too … God, no …”

He leapt to his feet, crossing the room in two strides and taking Taeyong by the shoulders, oblivious to the younger boy’s complete bewilderment as his addled mind tried to process what was happening.

“Who?” his hyung hissed, his eyes already sparkling as he tightened his grip on Taeyong’s body, fingernails digging sharply into goosebumped skin. “Who did they take?”

“Yuta and Hyuck,” Taeyong managed to choke out, and the second the names left his lips, he was gone.

He was a mess, tears and snot cascading in torrents even as Junmyeon gathered him in his arms and whispered false assurances into his ear. He was broken because now he could be. Now there wasn’t any of his little brothers staring up at him with wide eyes and terrified expressions as they begged him to make it all better again.

Now he was with his senior, the one person he could rely on to know how burdened he felt as a leader. A leader who had stood by and neglected their duties as two members were snatched from right under their noses.

_Not you, too._

“Wait,” Taeyong stuttered, pulling away from the embrace and pawing at the moisture in his eyes. “They … You … Who?”

“Sehun and Minseok-hyung.”

Taeyong felt his chest closing in on itself. Yuta, Donghyuck, Sehun, Minseok. They took four? In one night? For what? What did they want? Money? Why would they take all four if just one would have been enough?

And then he saw the other two people who were sat watching the exchange before them with a dulled lifelessness in their eyes.

Namjoon and Joshua.

“Was anyone hurt?”

They had taken eight people? How …? Why …? In all the decades of this industry’s existence, never had a single idol been abducted. And now they had lost eight in one night. To the same people.

“Taeyong!”

Taeyong gave himself an internal slap and returned his attention to the man in front of him, nodding to show he was back in reality and ready to listen.

“Was anyone hurt? Anyone else?”

“No,” the boy whispered, shaking his head. “No, no one was … Why? Did they hurt you?”

“Chanyeol and Jongin were in the car when it was hit,” Junmyeon explained, talking over Taeyong’s squeak of horror with calm in his voice and reassurance in the grip he still held on his dongsaeng’s upper arms. “They’re pretty battered but they’re going to be fine.”

It was too much. It couldn’t be real. Couldn’t possibly be real. But Taeyong didn’t have time to ask any more questions before a man in a suit and tie slipped elegantly through the door and closed it behind him, bowing to each of them in turn.

“Kim Junmyeon, Hong Jisoo, Kim Namjoon, Lee Taeyong,” he acknowledged before gesturing to the chairs around the table.

They all sat, shaking violently and sweating bullets, but desperate for any information. Any at all.

“My name is Detective Park and I am truly sorry for what you have all been through in the last few hours,” the man started, interlocking his fingers in front of him and looking each of them in the eye to display his sincerity. “But my team and I are here to ensure that everybody gets home safely. All I ask for in return is your cooperation. Can I count on that?”

There were four soft murmurs of ‘yes’ from around the wooden structure and the detective nodded in gratitude before glancing down at the file that sat in front of him and taking a deep breath.

Taeyong just wanted him to get straight to the point. He didn’t want to bother with knowing the statistics and the success stories and the meaningless promises. He just wanted to hear that these people knew exactly which bastards had taken the boys who had been under his protection and were already on their way to finding them.

But they weren’t.

“I think we can all agree that the incentive here is most likely a ransom demand considering your publicity, your salaries and the nature of your work. Therefore, we are expecting a call to be made or a video to be sent in the next few hours. It could be received by one of you, one of your members or one of your managers.”

The detective glanced up at the four men standing by the wall, each of whom nodded solemnly.

“So we're going to be monitoring your phones very closely. Now statistically, if the ransom is paid within the time frame set, the hostages should be returned safely.”

“Should be?” Joshua smirked bitterly. “What good does ‘should be’ do us?”

“I understand,” Park responded, mouth stretched into a thin line. “That this is a terrifying time for all of you, but I can promise that we will do absolutely everything we can to ensure the safe return of every one of your friends.”

Taeyong didn’t voice what he was thinking. He didn’t speak up and say that the police department may well do absolutely everything they could but that didn’t mean it would be enough. If these monsters wanted to, they could put a bullet in his brothers and just walk away if they didn’t get what they wanted.

“If there is anything any of you can think of that would help us track these people down, then please do not hesitate to say so. No matter how small the detail is or how insignificant it seems to you, it may be the clue we need to find the hostages.”

There was a moment of silence, but nobody spoke up. Nobody had anything. They were celebrities, of course they had people who would want to use them for their own personal gain. Anyone could look them up on the internet and find out where they lived, what they looked like and how they could be grabbed as easily as a child in a stroller at the park.

And suddenly Taeyong thought of something. His entire body was plunged into ice and horror ricocheted up and down his spine as he flinched in his chair and let out a stuttering gasp from the depths of his throat.

“My … my …” he stammered, hissing in fury when his tongue seemed unable to cooperate. “I have other members … They’re … The Dreamies are back at the dorm and … and WayV are in China. You … You need to get them. You need to bring them to me right now. I need … I need to know they’re safe.”

Junmyeon’s hand was on his thigh, squeezing reassurance into his spasming muscles, and somehow it managed to soothe Taeyong’s hammering heart as Detective Park held up his palms in a calming gesture.

“We know, Taeyong-ssi,” he said. “Officers have already been dispatched to transfer the rest of your group to a safe house.”

Taeyong nodded, scrubbing his fingers over his face as he breathed a sigh of relief and tried to convince himself that no one else was going to get taken. No one else was going to slip through his fingers because he hadn’t been there when he had needed to be.

“Are they going to hurt them?”

Namjoon’s whisper was so quiet that it almost went unheard but Taeyong felt his blood chill in his veins at the way this great leader he had always looked up to seemed to be so calm and yet had a voice that was trembling with terror.

“I mean …” Namjoon clarified, raising his voice slightly as he picked at the skin surrounding his fingernails. “I have a member with a brain bleed. It’s a minor one, sure, but it’s still a fucking brain bleed. And another who was stabbed. Twice. And Seungcheol just had a bullet dug out of his shoulder."

He gestured at Joshua, whose Adam’s apple bobbed almost comically at the mention of his injured leader, and only then did Taeyong realise why Seungcheol was not the one representing his group at this table.

For the first time that night, he felt lucky. Stabbed. Shot. Car crash. Brain bleed. Not a single one of his members had been touched – save for the ones that were gone – but these people sitting around him had clearly not avoided that particular fortune.

“These bastards aren’t messing around,” Namjoon continued, his anxiety rising along with the decibel of his voice. “They are not afraid to kill so what’s stopping them from taking whatever ransom we give them and then dumping my brothers’ bodies in a river?”

There was silence. A silence as loud as a football stadium. Every single person in that room had been thinking the exact same thing, visualising the possibility of their friends lying bloodied and lifeless in body bags, but no one had been expecting someone to say it aloud.

“You have to remain hopeful,” Detective Park said and Namjoon snorted in disgusted exasperation, throwing himself back in his chair and clenching his jaw.

“You are leaders, right? Or at least, you’re among the eldest in your groups. You’re the role models. You’re the ones who have to keep the spirits up, and no one is saying that you can’t be afraid or doubtful. You can be as terrified as you want but the one thing you cannot do is lose hope. Because once the loved ones do that, the victims are as good as dead. Okay?”

Beside Taeyong, Junmyeon opened his mouth, as though he were preparing to say something but one of the managers – BTS’ – broke him off with a horrified yelp from the corner of the room.

All eyes turned to Sejin as he stumbled across the room, staring down at his phone screen with wide eyes and a face that was drained of all colour, before he practically threw the device down on the table in front of Park like it had burned him.

“It’s from Yoongi,” he whispered.

Taeyong felt the fear radiating off Namjoon’s body in waves as Park pushed out of his chair and rose to his feet, taking the phone and inspecting the pixels that were forming whatever image had caused Sejin so much distress.

Taeyong could only imagine. And then Taeyong could only hope that what he was imagining wasn’t true.

 

_“STOP! GOD, PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM! PLEASE STOP!”_


	7. Perfect Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Jeon Jungkook (BTS)

              “Kook … Kook, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Jungkook whispered back, swatting furiously at the tears leaking from his eyes before he realised he’d just smeared a great arc of blood across his face. Yoongi’s blood. “None of this is okay.”

He was trying to stop the bleeding, the sleeves of his hood drenched in the stuff as he pressed down on the wound just beneath his hyung's hairline, trying to staunch the steady ooze of scarlet fluid.

Yoongi had closed his eyes a while ago, head cushioned in the younger boy’s lap, wincing every time the van hit a bump in the road or Jungkook pressed too hard, but still he was trying to soothe his little brother’s panic.

“You got to calm down for me, Kook,” he murmured back, nose scrunching in discomfort when one of Jungkook’s tears dropped onto his face. “It’s going to be alright.”

“How can you say that?” The panic was building, the pain in his chest tightening, the salted pearls on his cheeks flowing. “How can you say that when you won’t stop fucking bleeding?”

He knew he should stay level-headed. He knew he should be taking deep breaths, pacing himself and steadying his heartbeat. When this van stopped and those people came to take them wherever the hell they were taking them, he would have to be the one who fought. Because Yoongi couldn’t.

Because Yoongi had tried back in the dorm, even after he saw the knife slamming into Seokjin’s stomach and the butt of the gun coming down on Hoseok’s head. Yoongi had kicked and bit and punched and screamed at the people grabbing Jungkook to get the fuck off his family. 

And then they’d hit him with a vase.

He didn’t do much fighting after that.

“Jungkook …”

Jungkook brought himself back to reality at the sound of Yoongi’s whispered call, looking down at his hyung’s papery skin and closed eyelids. He was almost glad he couldn’t see him. Almost.

“Jungkook, you can’t fight them, okay?”

Jungkook inhaled, short and sharp, and paused in his frantic attempts at first aid to try and process what Yoongi had just said. “What?”

“Don’t fight them,” Yoongi repeated, voice a little stronger this time but still terrifyingly weak. “Don’t give them any reason to hurt you because they will. Do exactly what they say when they say it and don’t speak unless they tell you to. And if you get a chance, Kook … If you get a chance to run or call the police then you take it. Okay? You don’t worry about me, you don’t wait for me, you go and you get help and they’ll come back for me. Okay, Jungkook?”

“No,” Jungkook whimpered, shaking his head as the trembling in his entire body increased tenfold. “No … Not okay … Not okay at all.”

He would never leave Yoongi. Never. It didn’t matter if there was a gun to his head or a knife to his throat or a police officer standing ten feet away with open arms and the promise of safety. He would never leave Yoongi. And Yoongi should know better than to tell him to.

The van stopped.

Jungkook felt it draw to a halt, something similar to gravel crunching beneath the tyres and the entire vehicle jerking as though the hand break needed to adjust to the rough terrain.

Maybe they were on a hill? A slope of some kind? That would mean countryside, probably. And the ride hadn’t been that long – maybe an hour or two – so they were still in Korea and they weren’t far from Seoul. Jungkook could work with that.

“Hyung?” he hissed, trying to dry his tears before those monsters got a chance to taunt him for crying. “Hyung … I’m scared … Hyung?”

He glanced down and felt his breath sputter in his throat at the sight of Yoongi’s mouth hanging open slightly, his head lolling on Jungkook’s thigh and his breaths evening out in unconsciousness. He was alive, but now Jungkook was alone. And Jungkook didn’t want to be alone.

“Hyung,” he pleaded, but before he could do anything more than shake the prone body in his grip, the doors were flung open and the full force of the sun hit him like a train.

He shielded his face on instinct, the light after such a long lapse of darkness assaulting his optical nerves and sparking a dull throb in the back of his head. There was the dull thump of boots on gravel and the van rocked slightly at the new weight of whoever it was that was climbing in and Jungkook opened his mouth to utter some plea for release.

But then they took Yoongi from him.

“No!” he yelled, reaching out his arms to recapture a grasp on his hyung’s body as it was dragged from his lap, but his fingers closed on thin air.

By now, he could open his eyes fully, granting him a perfect view of the man that was walking away from the gaping doors, Yoongi hanging like a ragdoll in his arms. There were other men – all dressed in black and wearing masks – staring at him, as though waiting for him to make the first move.

“Stay if you want,” one of them finally said as Jungkook remained curled up in the back of the van. “But your friend’s coming inside with us.”

It was confusing. Cruel and confusing. It was like they were toying with him, giving him a choice to remain safe and protected within these reinforced walls but taunting him with the knowledge that they had his hyung and wouldn’t be letting go anytime soon.

It really wasn’t a choice.

Jungkook scrambled to his feet, stumbling out of the van and immediately making a break for the retreating figure cradling his brother. He tried to take in his surroundings as he ran, bare feet smarting against loose stones, while still trying to keep Yoongi in his sights at all times.

He had been right. They were in the countryside, surrounded by fields and greenery. It was picturesque, beautiful even. The only problem was that Jungkook had no idea where it was, and therefore nothing to tell the police even if he could get his hands on a phone.

The building they were approaching looked normal. A simple white-painted structure that had probably been a holiday home once upon a time, but was now used for something much more sinister than housing a happy family and their pet dog.

“Please,” Jungkook gasped breathlessly as he caught up to the man ahead. “Let me carry him. Please.”

He was ignored, and Yoongi’s head continued to hang limply over the edge of that huge arm, the blood dribbling slowly into his hair. Jungkook reached out and cupped his hand in his hyung’s hair, trying to lift his skull slightly so that it wouldn’t put so much strain on his neck, and the huge masked man seemed to be okay with that.

_If you get a chance to run or call the police, you take it._

The words Yoongi had spoken just minutes previously echoed in his ears, and sparked more tears in the corners of his eyes. He had the chance to run. He could make a break for it right now and hope for the best but then he might learn what it felt like to have a bullet pierce his back. And his earlier sentiment remained.

He was not leaving Yoongi.

He barely got a chance to scrutinise the rooms he was passing through before Yoongi and that huge gorilla of a man were disappearing off down a staircase that descended into darkness.

A basement. How cliché.

Jungkook followed, feeling the presence of others behind him, positioned strategically so that he couldn’t try to escape even if he wanted to, and his mind was racing as fast as his heart until he reached the bottom of those stairs. Then everything stopped.

The walls were stone. The floor was stone. There was a wooden wine rack to one side but the shelves were empty. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, exposed and too painful to look at for too long, and there were no windows. None.

But that was by no means the most terrifying feature of the place Jungkook knew was to become his living arrangements from now on.

The first thing he saw were the chairs. There were four of them, three of which contained slumped bodies with their heads hanging lifelessly against shoulders and legs that were splayed out in front of them, feet bare, bloodied and scratched.

They were facing away from him so he couldn’t identify the poor unfortunate souls, but he could see the cords wound around their wrists, keeping their arms trapped behind them and restricting all movement. But from the look of things, they were too out of it to tell.

The next he saw were the three people sitting on the floor with their legs crossed and their hands resting on their knees, like they had been schooled how to position themselves. Their faces _were_ visible, clenched jaws, dried tear tracks, forcefully controlled features, and Jungkook recognised every single one of them.

Sehun. Chan. Donghyuck.

“Sit down,” came a curt order from the right and Jungkook looked to see one of the men, the one with a tattoo of an arrowhead just above his eyebrow, pointing at a spot on the floor beside Sehun. “Now.”

Jungkook didn’t move. Jungkook couldn’t move. His mind was wrapped up in some delusional hope that this was all some really sick and twisted joke. There was absolutely no way these people – these ordinary men – could have orchestrated a crime so great.

“I said sit!” Tattoo roared and Jungkook jumped, not by the tone of the voice but by the grunt that bubbled from Yoongi's throat as he was slammed into the fourth chair.

“Do it, Jungkook.”

That had come from Sehun. His eyes were glazed, his back was rigid and he looked as though he were trying not to vomit as he stared at something no one else could see, but there was something in his voice that sent shivers up Jungkook’s spine. Something that said, _you don’t want to know what will happen if you don’t listen to them._

Jungkook staggered forwards, his feet catching beneath him and almost bringing him to all fours before he caught his balance and reached his assigned area of concrete to reside in. He sank to the ground, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees, just like each of the others beside him because that seemed to be the right thing to do.

And he watched as those men tied Yoongi’s hands behind the chair before the duct tape formed shiny silver straps over his mouth and eyes, wound around his entire head just to reinforce its security.

It looked awful. It looked painful. They were taking away Yoongi’s ability to move, to speak, to see and possibly to breathe. And Jungkook was just letting it happen.

He let his eyes wander away from his hyung, unable to look any longer, and took in the other three in the chairs. Their faces were encased in tape, too, eyes and mouths sealed shut, and each of them looked as if they had been beaten into unconsciousness.

Yoongi groaned, some instinct drawing him back to reality, and Jungkook felt his heart snap in two at the sight of his hyung trying to come to terms with why his vision was gone and his movements were restricted.

He almost wished they were switched. That he was the one in that chair with the merciless wood digging into his back and the grotesque sensation of tape sticking to his skin and hair. He almost wished.

One of the men delivered a backhanded slap to Yoongi’s cheek, knocking his head to the side and almost sending his chair tumbling, hissing out a hostile order of, “stop struggling,” and Yoongi fell still at once, breathing harsh and shoulders shaking with adrenaline and fear.

“You don’t have to do that!” Jungkook cried out, unable to stop himself from leaping to his feet and starting forwards. “You don’t have to hurt ---”

He skidded to a horrified halt the moment he saw the knife teasing the skin stretched over Yoongi’s carotid artery. That man – the one with the black beanie pulled as low as it would go – had a hand fisted in his hyung’s hair, wrenching his head back so Jungkook could get a good look at the blade in such a dangerous position.

Jungkook just froze. He didn’t make a single move because he had no idea what would set this guy off. Yoongi’s chest was heaving, his nostrils flaring as he tried to regulate his breathing without the ability to use his mouth, and Jungkook could feel the fear radiating off him.

“I suggest you sit back down,” Tattoo’s cold voice cut through the air like a whip crack and Jungkook obeyed without question the second he saw a trickle of blood sourcing from the place where the knife was pressing in.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, returning to his position with his head hung low and his eyes averted in what he hoped was a mark of respect and submission. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just … please … I’m sorry.”

“I’ll make this clear!” Tattoo yelled out, addressing each one of his captives, and Jungkook breathed a silent sigh of relief as it appeared his insubordination had been forgiven. “You four won’t be touched.”

He pointed at the four sitting on the floor.

“For that, you have my word. None of you will be harmed.”

Jungkook knew he should be grateful. Relieved. Glad. But there was something that was stopping those emotions from breaking through. Something that was coming that he wouldn’t be able to prevent.

“So feel free to fight back, to mouth off, to try to escape. You will feel no pain, you will sustain no injury and you will remain safe and unharmed. But these four,” he gestured to the chairs and their occupants that Jungkook only now could recognise as Minseok, Jeonghan and Yuta. “Will pay for every time you choose to play the hero.”

And there it was: the reason why Yoongi had been beaten and slung around and treated like he wasn’t even human while not even a finger had ghosted over Jungkook’s hair.

Yoongi was his leverage. His whipping boy. The recipient for all of his crimes. It was the only way these people knew that had absolute control over each and every one of them. They restrained the older ones, the ones who would be calmer and less likely to be afraid, and used them to manipulate the younger ones.

It was the perfect strategy.

They had all eight of them tied down when only four were actually tied.

“Are we clear on that?” Tattoo snapped and Jungkook nodded his head at once, feeling the others doing the same beside him.

“Good. Let’s begin.”  


	8. Make A Little Video

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Oh Sehun (EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Jeno!  
> My precious baby boy, I love you so much! I hope you never stop smiling and get all the hugs and kisses that you deserve!

              “We do not want to hurt you,” Tattoo clarified for what felt like the hundredth time, and Sehun had to suppress the urge to laugh.

If they truly didn’t want to hurt them then why had they hit them with a car? Why had they not allowed him to check Minseok for injuries when he was clearly wrought with them? Why had they trussed them up so viciously when they were all beaten so badly that they would be no threat?

He himself had gotten away with just a sore head but even from where he was sitting on this cold stone floor, he could see that his hyung was still bleeding from the lacerations on his face. His ankle was definitely broken, obvious from the way it was ballooning purple and angled in an unnaturally awkward fashion.

And there must be many more. So many more. But they hadn’t let him check, and therefore he had no idea just how serious Minseok could be hurt.

And he had no idea whether Jongin and Chanyeol were even alive.

“As long as you follow our instructions and we get our money, we will let you go,” Tattoo continued, pacing up and down in front of the four boys sitting cross-legged on the ground, still staring blankly ahead of them like they’d been told to. “But in order to do that, we’re going to make a little video.”

Sehun felt his stomach plummet and his heart leap into his throat, pounding incessantly and painfully as he tried not to imagine what kind of ‘little video’ he would be participating in. If they were sending it to the remaining members, they could do anything to prove just how urgently they wanted this cash.

They could torture them. They could hurt them. Humiliate them. So many things. But now Sehun knew that nothing would be happening to him. It would be happening to Minseok.

The guy with the black beanie pulled a phone out of his pocket and held it out towards Jungkook, his eyes the only part of his face that were visible from above the mask and below the rim of his hat.

“What’s the password?” he growled, and Sehun saw Jungkook swallow a mouthful of saliva as his words appeared to stick in his throat. “WHAT’S THE PASSWORD!”

“I don’t know!” the kid whimpered, a tear slipping from between powderpuff eyelids as he shook his head frantically. “It’s not mine! It’s Yoongi-hyung’s! I don’t know his password!”

Yoongi screamed and Sehun closed his eyes, unable to watch what was happening and trying to convince himself that he couldn’t smell that boy’s flesh burning as an ignited cigarette burrowed into the skin beneath his collarbone.

“1306!” Jungkook yelled, and the constricted screaming stopped, followed by heavy breathing laden with a slight wheeze and dripping in agony. “1306 … It’s our debut date. Try 1306.”

“Good boy,” Beanie crooned, and Sehun forced himself to open his eyes even if he couldn’t stand to see Yoongi slumped in his chair, chin resting on his chest and shoulders sagging. “Spot on.”

Donghyuck was crying. Sehun could hear him even though the kid was desperately trying to silence himself. He wanted to reach out and wrap him in an embrace but Chan was separating them, sitting rigid with his eyes clouded over and his mind blank.

A notebook thudded to the ground in front of Sehun, sliding forwards until it collided with his leg. He glanced down and picked it up, scanning the writing that was scrawled across the first page before raising his gaze to Tattoo.

That towering beast of a man was standing right in front of him, glaring down at his inferior form with a clear look in his eyes: _You saw what my guy just did,_ it said. _If you don’t want that to happen to your hyung then you will do exactly as I say._

“You’re going to read that,” he ordered and Sehun nodded immediately, desperate to please and submit in the hope that it would save Minseok a great deal of pain. “Do not skip any words. Do not change any words. Do not stop reading until you are finished. Keep both your hands on the notebook at all times. Do not move your fingers, keep them still. Do not look up from the notebook at any point. If you do, you will regret it.”

Sehun closed his eyes for a brief second of dissociation before he nodded one more time to show that he understood. When Tattoo spoke next, it was clear he was addressing the others.

“The rest of you will not speak. You will remain seated and your hands will remain on your knees. You will not move your fingers, you will look directly ahead of you at all times. Any attempts to send some secret message will be met with consequences. Is that understood?”

They nodded one final time, Donghyuck sniffling pathetically from the other end of the line and Jungkook blinking back tears as he struggled to take his eyes off the small circular burn on Yoongi’s neck.

Sehun just gripped the notebook with both hands, like he’d been instructed, and scanned the first line of the script he was to read, feeling a deep and heavy wad of dread sinking into the pit of his gut.

These people were not messing around.

Beanie was holding up Yoongi’s phone, standing in front of the four idols sitting on the floor so that the four on the chairs were out of the shot and therefore would not be seen by whoever was unfortunate enough to witness this video.

Sehun didn’t want to think about his hyungs seeing him like this: terrified, tear-stained, even a little bloody from the car crash. He hoped more than anything that the police would take the footage off them before they got a chance to watch.

“Right …” Tattoo said, nodding to one of his men – a bald guy with an overly large nose protruding from underneath his mask – who stepped up behind Minseok and rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

Sehun drew in a hitched breath as he saw Minseok tense. He hadn’t even realise his hyung had woken up due to the tape that concealed his eyes from view, and he couldn’t imagine how petrified he must be feeling. But he knew what that guy was doing: threatening him.

Threatening him by laying his hands on Minseok, giving him a clear warning: Don’t mess this up. Or else.

“Whenever you’re ready, Sehun.”

As if he had any choice. As if they were giving him the freedom to prepare himself for what he was about to do. As if they were tormenting him with the knowledge that they had total and absolute control over everything they said, thought and felt. As if he wanted to read this note.

But he had no choice. They had Minseok.

So he cleared his throat and began, wincing when his voice cracked on the first syllable and he was forced to start again. Even though his voice was shaking and his hands were trembling, he ploughed on without looking up. He wasn’t going to give them a reason to hurt his hyung.

“This is a message for the management companies of the eight idols we have in our possession. We are sorry that things have had to go this far but you may rest assured that as long as our demands are met, you will receive all your artists back in one piece.”

He almost choked on those last few words. One piece. Sehun wasn’t sure he would ever be in one piece again now that these people had carved into his soul and ripped it to shreds by making him watch his hyung’s torture.

“Exactly one week from now, on May 3rd, you will place ₩4 billion ----”

His throat closed up and he felt rather than heard Chan’s sharp intake of breath from beside him. He almost raised his head before he remembered that he’d been strictly ordered not to, but his grip tightened on the paper pad in his hands as they shook with even more fervency.

4 billion? 4 billion? That was too much. Way, way too much. The companies would never pay that. They didn’t care enough about them to risk bankruptcy. These men were asking for a miracle, and if it wasn’t received, they were going to get very, very nasty.

“₩4 billion in a plain black duffel bag. The bag will be checked for trackers, for explosives, for any kind of trap or tracing device and if one is found ---”

He stopped again as bile rose up in the back of his throat. How was he supposed to read those words in front of Donghyuck? In front of all of these people who were barely into adulthood? They couldn’t make him read those words.

“If one is found, we will force Lee Donghyuck to cut off one of Nakamoto Yuta’s fingers.”

Sehun had been praying Yuta was still unconscious but from the shuddering gasp that filtered through layer upon layer of duct tape, he realised he wasn’t. And Donghyuck had pressed his lips together as tightly as he possibly could so the sob of terror he conjured up automatically went unheard.

“At 3pm in the afternoon exactly, that duffel bag will be brought to the bridge in the middle of Songdo Central Park. We will take the bag, check that it contains the entirety of the ransom and then – and only then – will you get your idols back. The drop off must be made by NCT’s Park Jisung…”

At that, Sehun could no longer contain himself. At that, he forgot what was being threatened right in front of him and what the consequences of his insubordination would be. Because he just could not believe these people would drag a child into this nightmare of torture and terror.

“You can’t do that!” he cried, staring up at Tattoo with defiance and protectiveness in his eyes. “He’s just a kid! You can’t ---”

Tattoo gave Baldy one look, one infinitesimal nod, one wordless indication, and Minseok stopped breathing. A finger and a thumb clenched down on his nose, cutting off his air supply as quickly and easily as he would turn off a water tap.

Minseok’s back arched, his legs kicking out in all directions and his entire body writhing as he fought to shake off those hands that were suffocating him. An awful guttural choking noise was crackling from behind the tape over his mouth and his panic was only adding to the speed with which his struggle began to weaken.

“STOP!” Sehun screamed, scrambling up off the floor only to drop to his knees once more at the look Tattoo gave him. He stayed there, bones throbbing against cold concrete as his eyes streamed tears and his throat tore itself apart. “STOP! GOD, PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM! PLEASE STOP!”

But they didn’t stop. Minseok’s kicking was starting to slow, his choking was dying down, his fight was leaving him as quickly as his brain was being deprived of oxygen and it was all Sehun’s fault.

“I’m sorry!” he begged, his face a waterfall and his nose a faucet as he sobbed his pleas to the monsters that were taking his hyung’s life. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please, just stop!”

His foot nudged the notebook on the floor and he latched onto it with both hands, folding his legs beneath him and shuffling back in line with Chan and Jungkook.

“See?” he cried, raising the ransom note so Tattoo could see it. “I’ll keep going! I’ll keep going! Please, just stop before you kill him! I’m begging you, please!”

And finally Minseok was allowed to inhale. Sehun watched him bending at the waist until his bruised nose almost touched his knees and his torso heaved with the effort of filling his lungs through the limited entrance he had.

Sehun wished he could ask them to remove the tape from his hyung’s mouth so that he could breathe easier but he didn’t dare form another word that wasn’t scripted for fear Minseok would be subjected to that torture again.

Tattoo was glaring at him, silently ordering him to continue, and Sehun couldn’t have obeyed faster.

“The drop off must be made by Park Jisung. He must alone. If anyone is with him, Nakamoto Yuta will lose two fingers. If we see any police in the surrounding area, Nakamoto Yuta will lose three fingers. If nobody shows up or the ransom is incomplete, you will receive Nakamoto Yuta’s body in … in pieces.”

He kept going because he had to. He couldn’t risk another punishment and the only way he could get through this was to ignore Donghyuck’s soft sobs on his right. He couldn’t bear the thought of these threats being carried out, and if they were, he wasn’t sure he would be able to live his life knowing what he had allowed to happened.

“As long as you follow these instructions precisely and accurately, we can walk away from this and pretend it never happened. But if we feel as if our location has been compromised or you have sent the police to take us out, your friends will die. We will see you at 3pm on May 3rd.”

He finished reading and heard the soft beep of the video ending before he allowed himself to breathe properly, wiping at the tears and the snot that were in the process of drying in flaking tracks on his face.

“Well done,” Tattoo praised, and Sehun wanted to punch him, but he was too broken. Too guilt-stricken by what his actions had done to Minseok. “There was a minor hiccup, sure, but for the most part, you were very good, Sehun.”

They were leaving, Sehun realised, as he heard the door unlocking at the top of the stairs and the footsteps that were trailing along concrete. They were finally leaving them alone to check on each other and look after each other and apologise profusely to each other for the situation they had found themselves in.

“You will receive food and water in three hours,” Tattoo continued, still not moving a muscle even as his cohorts were retreating back above ground. He gestured to the four in the chairs, Yoongi still slumped, Minseok still wheezing, Yuta still trembling and Jeonghan still unconscious. “You may touch them, you may speak to them but you may not untie them or remove the tape. Any attempt to do so will be met with further consequences and I think we’ve had enough of those for today.”

He winked at Sehun, clapped Minseok on the shoulder and then ascended the stairs to the top. But just before he disappeared into that sliver of light emanating from the hallway, he looked back and said with a twisted glint of sadism in his eyes:

“I hope you’re comfortable.”

And with that, he left them soaked in blood, sweat and tears, shaken and traumatised and praying to a God that seemed to have forgotten them as that single bulb sputtered weakly above them with their only source of light concealed in its glassy shell.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School starts for me tomorrow so I won't be able to update as regularly as before. But this story will not be abandoned or forgotten. It may be a lot longer between chapters but I will not give up, I promise. And thank you for reading thus far :)


	9. Watching Him Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Moon Taeil (NCT)

              Taeil could see Taeyong breaking.

He saw it from the jitteriness, the pacing, the forcibly controlled expression, the hitch in his breaths that cut through the silence every now and again. He saw it in the way his leader kept glancing at the others, both Dream and 127 either strewn out or huddled together in their manager’s apartment.

Taeil understood. He was scared, too. He wanted information and he wanted it now but more than anything, he wanted Yuta and Donghyuck in his arms.

Instead, he had Renjun's head resting on his shoulder, the kid picking anxiously at a loose thread in his oversized sweater. He loved Renjun. He loved him with all his heart. But right now, he wished he was Donghyuck.

Taeil could see Taeyong was trying to be strong. He was concealing his terror behind a stone cold mask of ersatz bravery, but now the plaster was cracking and the true extent of his internal torture was starting to shine through.

Taeil was watching him break. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

When the door finally opened, he had never been more thankful for a reason to leap to his feet and rush across the room to pull Sicheng against his chest. He could feel the taller boy stiffening, every muscle hardening to ice, before those spindly praying-mantis arms finally returned the embrace and Sicheng hugged him back.

For the briefest of moments, Taeil allowed himself to feel safe. Because Sicheng was here. And so was Kun and Yukhei and Yangyang and Ten and Xiaojun and Hendery. They were here and they were safe. They weren’t in the clutches of whoever it was that had ripped their ranks to rubble, and in this briefest of moments, that was enough.

The Chinese boy was the first to pull away and Taeil barely registered the rest of WayV accepting the hugs and the cries of relief at their return with looks of poorly concealed confusion on their tired faces, before Sicheng asked the question that tore his foundations to shreds.

“Where’s Yuta-hyung?”

Because it was then that Taeil realised they didn’t know. No one had told them that two of their own were somewhere unknown, possibly hurt, possibly crying, possibly screaming. They’d simply been pulled off the set of some reality show, bundled onto a private jet and flown straight back to Korea without even so much as an explanation as to why. They didn’t know.

“Hyung,” Sicheng repeated, giving Taeil the smallest of shakes. “Where’s Yuta-hyung?”

Of course, Sicheng would notice within seconds of his arrival. Of course, Sicheng would expect Yuta to be the first one to greet him when he walked through the door. Of course, Sicheng would know at once that something was terribly, terribly wrong just because his favourite hyung wasn’t there.

Taeil opened his mouth, gaping like a goldfish while Sicheng stared at him in profound desperation as that Jenga tower of anxiety started building itself higher and higher and higher with every second his question went unanswered.

“Taeil-hyung, what’s going on? Why are we here?”

Taeil ignored him. Taeil hated himself, but he ignored him. Instead, he sat them all down on the living room sofa, some of them straying onto chairs and the floor as they stared up at their eldest and their leader with wide-eyed anticipation. And then Taeil turned to Taeyong and the two of them exchanged a silent nod of understanding before the one they were all looking to opened his mouth with every intention to restore calm.

But something inside him was too fragile.  

“There … There was … Yuta and Hyuck … They …”

Taeil closed his eyes. Taeyong was panicking. He could already hear it in his dongsaeng’s voice and the uncontrollable catches in his fragmented sentences. Taeyong wasn’t strong enough for this. Because Taeyong was breaking.

“It was my fault … It was all my fault so if you need someone to blame – and I get it if you do because I need someone to blame but there’s no one to blame but me – then you … you need to … blame me, yeah. You have to blame me because all of this is my fault. But some men … Some men came … And Yuta and Hyuck, they … And I know I should have been there but …”

“Taeyong,” Johnny interrupted, and Taeil breathed a sigh of relief as the tallest member rose to his feet and rested a restraining hand on Taeyong’s trembling shoulder. The boy was on the verge of a meltdown and that would do nothing for their morale. “Go onto the balcony and get some air.”

“No,” Taeyong snapped, shaking him off and stepped out of his reach. “I can do this. I can do this, John. I can …”

“Taeyong,” Johnny repeated firmly, the hardened expression in his eyes clearly stating that his order was not up for debate. “Go onto the balcony and get some air.”

Taeil watched with heart-breaking helplessness as Taeyong’s gaze roved over the rest of his group, all of them sitting there in silent horror at the sight of the supposed strongest and toughest out of all of them crumbling to rubble right in front of their eyes.

The leader parted his lips to protest once more before what was left of his resolve shattered and he made a break for the door with his hand clamped over his mouth and his eyes spewing fresh tears in bursts of salted rain.

“Taeil,” Johnny whispered, but Taeil could do nothing more than blink to show he was listening. “Go with him. I’ve got this.”

The eldest nodded, giving Jungwoo’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he pushed himself to his feet and hurried into the kitchen. Taeyong was visible through the sliding glass doors, hands braced against the balcony railing and his figure slumped and heaving with panicked devastation.

It was agonising to see him like that, so broken and guilt-stricken that he could barely stand straight, and Taeil knew as soon as he pushed that glass barrier aside and heard the strangled sobs that the only thing with the power to take away this pain was Donghyuck’s laugh and Yuta’s smile.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

He didn’t know where the words came from but all of a sudden, they were spilling from his mouth without his permission and Taeyong’s entire body flinched at the sound of the question he thought he’d managed to avoid.

“You saw the video but you told us they didn’t let you so that you wouldn’t have to tell us what was on it.”  

The moment his little brother looked up with tear-stained cheeks and powderpuff eyes, some part of Taeil wished he hadn’t asked. But the other part needed to know what his leader knew. Needed to know that there was at least some proof that Yuta and Donghyuck were still breathing.

And Taeyong wasn’t the only one who was hurting here.

“Yeah,” the boy choked out, tightening his grip on the railing as he stared out over the streets of Seoul. At the tiny little ants bustling about far, far below with no idea how dark the world had just gotten. “Yeah, I saw it.”

Taeil was too frightened to ask, so instead he just joined Taeyong at the barrier and waited in silence for the answers he craved.

“Yuta wasn’t in the shot,” Taeyong croaked, and Taeil felt his stomach turn as his mind cooked up a thousand reasons why the kidnappers hadn’t wanted Yuta on camera. “But I saw Hyuck and … He … He looked … okay?”

He chuckled slightly in spite of himself because it was comical to think of ‘okay’ as an appropriate word to use in a situation such as this.

“I mean … He didn’t look hurt. He was … crying but I couldn’t see any blood or bruises and he … he looked okay, hyung.”

Taeil nodded in understanding, his own tears starting to breach the surface at the sound of Taeyong’s stuttering and whimpering and desperate attempts to hide his fear. The only thing he could repeat over and over and over was that Donghyuck was alive. Donghyuck was alive and therefore there was still hope, no matter how thin its sliver.

“But they’re asking too much,” Taeyong continued. “They want too much money, hyung, and I’m not sure if the company are going to pay. And … And … And they want Jisung to do the drop.”

Taeil blanched, heartrate soaring with a jolt of electrified horror as his head whipped towards Taeyong and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“They … What … Why?”

“Because he’s young,” Taeyong responded bitterly. “He’s a child and they know that the police aren’t going to risk firing any shots if there’s a child involved. And they know he won’t come after them because he’s a fucking child!”

These people were monsters. Plain and simple. They were evil, cruel, capricious monsters and if Taeil ever found himself in the same room as just one of them, they would beg for mercy as he ripped their eyeballs clean out of their skulls.

“What am I supposed to do, hyung?” Taeyong whispered, his face crusted with salted dewdrops and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he was forced to repeatedly swallow the globule of saliva that kept trying to claw its way up his throat. “Even if the company agree to pay the ransom, I’d be sending Jisung into a situation he can’t be in. But if it’s not him … If it’s not him, they’re going to hurt Yuta and I … I don’t know what to do.”

He finally turned his head to meet Taeil’s eye, both of them crying at the realisation of just how trapped they felt, even if they weren’t the ones being held hostage.

“If I send Jisung out there, we _might_ get Yuta and Hyuck back. And we might not. We might lose all three of them. But if I do nothing, they’re going to kill Yuta and send us his body in dismembered pieces.”

Taeil gulped. Taeil tried not to vomit. Taeil cried.

“What am I supposed to do, hyung?”

Taeil was the eldest. Taeil was supposed to have the answers. Taeil was supposed to help.

Taeil couldn’t.

But Taeil had to try.

“We do exactly what the police tell us to do,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster, reaching out with a quivering hand to squeeze Taeyong’s shoulder. “We let them do their jobs, we let them give the orders and we talk to Jisung. As much as you may want to think of him as a baby, Taeyong, he is seventeen years old. He is not a child anymore and he can make his own decisions.”

He swallowed the bile that had accumulated in his mouth, burning his tongue and singing his taste buds.

“If he wants to do this then the police will keep him safe. They won’t let them hurt him. And we trust that these they’ll give them back to us. Okay?”

The sun shone a little brighter when Taeyong nodded, seemingly pulling himself together a little bit more at Taeil’s impromptu words. It didn’t matter that the eldest hadn’t believed a single syllable he was saying, that he would rather cut off his own leg then send Jisung out onto that bridge, because Taeyong had heard what he needed to hear.

“Okay.”

“We stay strong. For Hyuck, for Yuta and for the others. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“We stay calm. Even if we feel like it’s too much. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And we bring them home. Okay?”

“Okay.”  


	10. Didn't Make Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Chan (Dino of SEVENTEEN)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Baekhyun! I hope that my brightest bundle of joy has the best day! I love you so much, baby!
> 
> And also, Minseok, we love you, we'll miss you and we'll wait for you. Please stay safe and we'll see you in 21 months!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING!!!!  
> This chapter contains very mild descriptions of non-con. Please read at your own risk.

             Chan didn’t make promises.  

It was something he’d decided almost ten years ago when he hadn’t been able to keep his word to a little girl in his class at school. Since then, he’d sworn never to make promises. Because if promises weren’t kept, they chipped away at the armour of whoever had been wronged. They destroyed their trust and their faith in humanity.

So Chan didn’t make promises.  

He was sitting on the floor of the basement, the cold concrete numbing the skin of his leg through his jeans and pricking goosebumps on his bare feet and ankles. His body was slumped against Jeonghan’s chair, his head resting on his hyung’s thigh and his nose buried in the older boy’s shirt.

It smelled of sweat and blood and fear. But most importantly, it smelled of Jeonghan. And that was why Chan wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon.

He’d checked his hyung for further injuries, examining the gash he’d sustained when they’d been abducted, but he’d stopped after the realisation hit him that it didn’t matter if he found every bump and bruise on his brother’s body because he had no medical supplies to treat him.

So he put his head in Jeonghan’s lap, wrapped his arms around Jeonghan’s waist and pressed his face into Jeonghan’s stomach and he cried. For Jeonghan. For himself.

For Donghyuck who hadn’t stopped sobbing since they’d been left alone in the gloom.

For Sehun who had been apologising for the torture his hyung had endured because of him.

For Jungkook. And for Yoongi. And for Yuta. And for Minseok.

But also for Seungcheol.

He could remember the terror that had ricocheted through his body when he’d heard the gunshot and his leader’s scream of agony that accompanied it. But then he’d been manhandled out the door without the chance to check if Seungcheol was even still breathing, and the thought of his hyung dying on the cheap rug only made him cry harder.

A faint hum filtered through the sound of his own hitched breaths and Chan lifted his head slightly, trying to hone in on the source of the noise. It was soft and slightly constricted. Some of the notes were silenced by a throat that couldn’t work properly and there was no way of identifying the tune, but Chan knew that voice anywhere.

Jeonghan was singing to him.

Jeonghan was the one who was tied up, gagged, blindfolded, bloody and bruised, and yet Jeonghan was the one trying to comfort him. Because Jeonghan would forever put his role of hyung before anything else.

Chan opened his mouth, meaning to tell his brother that it was okay. That he didn’t need to waste his energy on singing to his maknae and should focus on something happy. Should try to dissociate from reality and think of better times, but he never got the chance.

The door at the top of the stairs swung open, reverberating off the stone wall with a bang that had Jeonghan flinching in his chair. Chan reached out and fastened a hand on his hyung’s thigh, squeezing in reassurance.

The guy that lumbered down the stairs, a plastic bag swinging from his hand, was 100% pure muscle. His skin was stretched over his biceps, clinging so snug that the veins popped out with grotesque lividity, and the width of one of his thighs was probably the same as Chan’s entire body.

And he was still wearing his mask.

Chan could feel Jeonghan’s body tensing, nostrils flaring as he tried to make out what was happening in the void of darkness he currently resided in, and the younger boy manoeuvred himself around the chair so that he was between his hyung and the newcomer.

Muscles stopped at the foot of the stairs, smirking at the eight people in front of him before he crouched down and set the bag on the floor, turfing four paper wrappers and four water bottles onto the concrete.

“Eat up,” he ordered, lazily tossing the supplies towards the captives. “Make it quick.”

Chan didn’t let go of Jeonghan’s thigh as he reached for the package with his free hand, desperate to remain a constant reminder to his hyung that he was here and he wasn’t leaving for a single second.

He tipped a burger out into his lap and almost barked out a laugh at the sight of the thing. A burger. A fucking burger. He’d have thought they’d be living on stale bread or something for the next seven days but apparently these psychopaths wanted them well-fed.

“Can we take the tape off?” Donghyuck whispered, and Chan turned so he could see the youngest holding the greasy meal in one hand and Yuta’s shoulder in the other as he addressed the guy still crouched at the foot of the steps. “Can we take the tape off so they can eat?”

“They’re not eating,” Muscles responded at once. “You are. Hurry up.”

Chan blanched, his eyes inflating like balloons as he stared at the slightly bored expression in the face of that twisted, filthy, pathetic excuse for a human being. Half of it was concealed by the mask that protected his identity but the eyes always spoke a billion words.

“What?” he hacked out, feeling Jeonghan twitch beside him. “You’re starving them, too?”

Muscles’ posture didn’t change. He didn’t even blink as he growled out the order, “Eat. I won’t tell you again.”

But Chan wasn’t going to eat. Not until Jeonghan did. He wasn’t going to sit back and let them pamper and care for him while Jeonghan was tortured, tormented and deprived of everything he needed to survive. He just wasn’t.

“You have to let them eat,” he spat at Muscles, ignoring Jeonghan’s muffled whimper of protest. “If they die of starvation then you have no leverage. You can’t make us do anything if you don’t have them, so let us take the tape off and give them something to eat!”

Everybody in the room seemed to be holding their breath.

Donghyuck had already started nibbling on the bap, too terrified to refuse an order but at Chan’s outburst, he had stuttered to a halt. Sehun’s eyes were flickering between Seventeen’s maknae and their largest captor, his jaw clenched as he prepared himself to defend Minseok from whatever he would have to defend him from. And Jungkook had positioned himself so that his back was to Muscles, his body shielding Yoongi from view as he closed his eyes and tried to block it all out.

And nobody seemed to be breathing.

“They need to eat,” Chan repeated defiantly even as Jeonghan started nudging him with his toe, blatantly telling him to shut up. “Or they’ll die.”

Muscles stood up, his almighty frame towering over each and every one of them, even more so because they were kneeling on the floor. He crossed the space between the stairs and Jeonghan’s chair in less than two seconds and Chan was absolutely powerless to stop him.

“You want him to eat?” the monster snarled. “Fine, take the tape off and I’ll give him something to eat.”

And he started taking off his belt.

“NO!” Chan screamed as he threw himself onto Jeonghan’s lap, straddling his hyung’s waist and pulling the older boy’s head into his chest, both hands coming up to wrap around the mop of dirty blonde hair.

He burrowed his nose into Jeonghan’s shoulder, screwing his eyes shut and trying not to pay attention to the breath he could feel against his neck, hot and panicked and terrified, as he repeated the same thing over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sir. I’m so sorry, Sir. I’m so, so sorry.”

He could feel Muscles had stopped walking, that he was hovering over the two of them and he didn’t need to look to see that satisfied smirk on his twisted, ugly face.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he sobbed, infuriated by the tears that stung his corneas but not faltering in his appeasement for a single second. “You’ve made your point. I’ll do whatever you want me to do and I won’t make a fuss. I swear to you, Sir, just please don’t touch him.”

Jeonghan was crying, too, nuzzling further into Chan’s chest with each hysterical plea that echoed from his maknae’s mouth, and Chan couldn’t even begin to imagine how terrified he must be at this moment. He probably had no idea what Muscles had just threatened to do but from his little brother’s reaction, he must know that it was pretty fucking terrible.

“Please don’t touch him,” Chan whispered, almost praying. “I’m begging you. Just please don’t touch him. I’ll do everything you tell me to. Just please don’t touch him.”

“Eat the fucking burger. You have sixty seconds.”

Chan had never moved faster. He scrambled off Jeonghan’s lap and dived for the discarded burger on the floor, stuffing it into his mouth and starting to chew ferociously. The bread burned his throat on the way down and the burger almost choked him but he didn’t even draw breath.

Because Muscles was crouching beside Jeonghan, one gigantic hand tracing the tape over his mouth, and Jeonghan was trying to turn his head away, kicking out with his legs but achieving nothing. Chan wanted to stop and lunge forwards, smacking those trespassing fingers from his hyung’s face but he had a pretty good idea what would happen if he did.

Then Muscles leaned closer and licked the side of Jeonghan’s face.

“I finished!” Chan choked out, his mouth still half full as he forced the last bite down his oesophagus. “I finished. Please stop. I finished now. See? I finished.”

He reached up and swatted at the tears on his face and the drool on his chin, trembling all over as he begged for his hyung’s release on his knees. It was pathetic. He knew that. Pathetic and weak and vulnerable. But it was for Jeonghan. And that made it okay.

“Good job,” Muscles praised as he straightened up, raking a hand through Jeonghan’s hair as he stooped to collect the burger wrappers and the empty water bottles. “I knew you’d learn sooner or later.”

The others must have scoffed down their food as well, trying to use it as a distraction from what was happening right in front of them, because Muscles left them shortly after that. He just abandoned them in the dark with that single light bulb pulsating above their heads, threatening to sputter out at any moment.

There was the metallic clank of the door’s lock being drawn across and Jeonghan immediately started to hyperventilate. He pitched forwards as far as his bound hands would let him, shoulders heaving and breaths coming out in strangled gasps as he brought his knee up and tried to wipe the saliva off his face with the denim.

Chan did it for him, gently swabbing his cheek with his own sleeve until every trace of that bastard’s DNA was gone. Then he climbed back onto Jeonghan’s lap, hands stroking his hair, wishing he could comb away the touches that monster had poisoned his hyung with.

And they cried together.

“I’m sorry,” Chan whispered, trying to wipe the snot from Jeonghan’s nose so that he would be able to breathe a little easier. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, hyung. I’ll be good now. I promise. I won’t let him hurt you. I promise, hyung, I’ll be good. I promise. I promise. I’m not going to let him touch you ever again. I promise.”

Apparently Chan made promises now.  


	11. Here For Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Zhang Yixing (Lay of EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WayV COMEBACK!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

             The phrase ‘drop everything and run’ is just that. A phrase. It’s not supposed to be taken in the literal sense.

But when Yixing got the phone call – when he heard the sobbing and the pleading and the desperation behind the voice on the other end of the line – the coffee cup fell from his hand to crumple into a mush of wet cardboard on the ground.

He was out of his front door before the steaming liquid had even managed to stink up the hotel room. He didn’t call his manager, he didn’t cancel the schedule that he had that day. He literally dropped everything and ran.

The only plane ticket available for the first flight to Korea was seated in the economy class but he didn’t care. People could take photos of him if they wanted. People could sidle over for autographs if they wanted. People could do whatever the fuck they wanted because Yixing was going to his family.

He should have been there. That was the only thing he knew for certain. He should have been there to protect them, but he hadn’t. He’d been parading around China with adoring fans screaming every time he raised his hand while Minseok and Sehun were who knows where and going through who knows what.

And he hadn’t been there.

But he made himself a promise as he scrambled into the back of the taxi at Seoul International Airport and choked out the name of the hospital he knew his members were at: He would not show them how scared he was. He would be strong and he would be calm and he would be their foundations because he had no right to break down when he hadn’t been there.

He would be the eldest, because Minseok couldn’t.

The taxi driver had barely had time to collect the bills Yixing threw his way before the idol was tumbling out onto the concrete and sprinting through the front doors. His sweaty, flushed and very noisy arrival came as a shock to the nurse on reception as he careered into her department with Chanyeol’s name on his lips.

“Room 602,” she offered up to him and he thanked her breathlessly before he was on the move again.

He hadn’t been there. Why hadn’t he been there? Why had he left in the first place? Why hadn’t he come back sooner? There were so many reasons to hate himself but he pushed each and every one of them out of his mind the second he came face to face with the pale grey door labelled 602.

He would be calm. He would be strong. He would be the eldest, because Minseok couldn’t.

And he pushed open the door.

Chanyeol was lying slightly propped up on a mountain of pillows, his head lolling to the side and his chin touching his shoulder, his nose and mouth engulfed in a plastic mask that fogged up every time he breathed. His face was bruised and there was a disgustingly large bloody slash over his eyebrow, stitches holding the jagged edges together.

Yixing had never thought their mighty Chanyeol could look so tiny.

Junmyeon raised his head from where he sat at his dongsaeng’s side. His eyes were swollen, but not red. He’d probably cried so much that he’d run out of fluid to lose. His hair was unwashed, his clothes were splattered with coffee stains and he had never looked so … old.

At the sight of Yixing framed in the doorway, however, Junmyeon’s face crumpled and the younger boy crossed the room in two strides, sinking to his knees beside his leader’s chair and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

“I’m here now,” he mumbled, and he felt Junmyeon nodding into his shoulder, body trembling and breaths hitched. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you ever again.”

It was probably a good ten minutes before Junmyeon seemed to decide it was okay to let go, but even then, his fingers remained locked around Yixing’s hand as he pulled up a chair and lowered himself onto the hard plastic. It was almost like he was afraid to relinquish contact.

“Who called you?”

“Jongdae.”

Junmyeon’s half-smile was twisted and malformed. “Of course, it was.”  

“How is he?” Yixing murmured, his free hand reaching out to hook a stray lock of Chanyeol’s hair behind his ear.

“They said,” Junmyeon ground out, and his voice was so croaky that he had to clear his throat and try again. “They said he was bleeding into his lungs or something like that but he’s going to be okay. He’s just in and out at the moment. Can’t stay awake for longer than a few minutes and he hasn’t managed to say anything yet.”

“And Jongin?”

“Confused,” Junmyeon informed him, still blank and lifeless. “He hit his head pretty hard so he doesn’t really know what’s happening. His leg’s seriously fucked up but they said they can discharge him once the concussion’s healed a little more. Kyungsoo’s with him.”

Yixing nodded his understanding, still gripping Junmyeon’s hand as he leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Chanyeol’s forehead, combing his fingers through the messy mop of black hair.

“Hey, baby giant,” he whispered, bringing back the nickname he hadn’t used since their trainee days. “Hyung’s here now. Hyung’s going to take care of everything.”  

He sat back in his chair and took the time to rake his eyes over Junmyeon’s dishevelled figure before he said, “Junmyeon, I think you should get some sleep. You look half dead.”

He had been expecting resistance. He’d known Junmyeon wouldn’t want to leave Chanyeol’s side. He hadn’t expected Junmyeon’s eyes to well up, a few more tears escaping their eyelash prison.

“I can’t,” he choked out, and Yixing turned slightly in his chair so he was facing him, taking both his trembling hands in his.

“It’s okay, Junmyeon,” he soothed. “I can wake you if there’s any change, but you’ll make yourself sick if you keep on …”

“No,” Junmyeon interrupted, watering eyes raising to meet Yixing’s confused gaze. “I mean. I can’t.”

Yixing stared back at him. “I don’t …”

“I can’t close my eyes,” Junmyeon clarified, and finally his friend understood. “I’m scared that I’ll wake up and they’ll be gone too. I … I let my guard down. I turned my back for one second … I closed my eyes, and they got Minseok-hyung and Sehun. I … I … I can’t let that happen again.”

Yixing should have been there.

“Come here,” he ordered gently, going in for another hug where Junmyeon clung to him as though he would disintegrate if he ever let go. “You could never have known this was going to happen. You didn’t let your guard down and you didn’t turn your back. You just weren’t there. And that’s okay, because I wasn’t either. It’s not our fault. We did nothing wrong.”

He had to remind himself that he was not here to cry.

“I will stay right here. I won’t leave him for a single second and if someone comes in here and tries to take him, I will kill them.”

And he meant it too.

“I swear to you, Junmyeon, no one is going to touch him while I’m here. And you know Kyungsoo. If anyone comes anywhere near Jongin, he’ll go all ‘100 Days My Prince’ on their ass.” He pulled back and took his leader’s face in his hands. “Okay?”

Junmyeon still looked conflicted, his eyes leaping from Yixing’s face to Chanyeol’s unconscious form with nothing but uncertainty mirrored in those watering wells. But Yixing’s promise seemed to finally shatter those barriers the leader had tried to put up around himself, and he gave a small nod of affirmation.

“Call Jongdae,” Yixing told him, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “Tell him I said to stay with you until you wake up. I’ll sit with Chanyeol.”

He watched Junmyeon shuffling from the room, head hung low and posture drained of all energy. He looked half dead. He looked like he’d already given up hope of ever finding Minseok and Sehun alive. And Yixing understood. He understood all too well.

His headphones were plugged in the second the door closed and the video was already up on his screen. He had to watch it again. He had to prove to himself that Sehun was still talking and breathing and existing on this planet even if those monsters were threatening to snuff him out as easily as they would a candle.

_“This is a message for the management companies of the eight idols we have in our possession.”_

Every detail was studied. The way they were sitting, straight backs, crossed legs, hands on their knees. They must have been ordered to position themselves like that.

_“We are sorry that things have had to go this far but you may rest assured that as long as our demands are met, you will receive your artists back in one piece.”_

They were apologising. Kidnappers didn’t apologise. They were sadists. Cruel, emotionless psychopaths who revelled in the torture of others. But not these people. These people were apologising for what they’d done. That could mean they were telling the truth. That could mean they really would release the hostages once the ransom was paid.

_“The bag will be checked for trackers, for explosives, for any kind of trap or tracing device.”_

They’d watched a lot of crime documentaries. Or they’d done this before. Either way, they knew exactly how the police officers’ minds worked. And there was no room for error here. None at all. Or they would kill Yuta.

_“STOP! STOP! GOD, PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM! PLEASE STOP!”_

The first couple of times Yixing had watched this video, he’d had to switch it off when Sehun started screaming. It was too painful, seeing his maknae on his knees like that, face drenched in tears and snot and spit, as he begged those faceless people to stop doing whatever it was they were doing to his hyung.

But then Yixing had known he’d needed to finish. He’d needed to know that Minseok hadn’t died as a result of Sehun’s insubordination. And when the kid sat back on the ground and resumed his reading of that disgusting ransom note, Yixing knew Minseok was alive. Sehun wouldn’t have done that if Minseok wasn’t alive.

That was all he needed.

Proof. That they were alive.

Yixing turned off the video and put the device away, tugging out his earphones and returning his full attention to Chanyeol. He took his hand, running his fingers over the papery matchstick fingers, and repositioned the covers slightly on his little brother’s body. He just needed something to do.

“We’re going to get them back,” he told Chanyeol, not moving his gaze from the IV in his dongsaeng’s hand. “I promise you, Yeol, even if I have to do it myself, I’m going to bring your hyung and your maknae home. You don’t have to worry.”

Chanyeol gave a particularly loud sigh, his head rolling a little on his shoulders as he shifted in his sleep. Yixing could only hope he was dreaming of something other than the absence of his best friends.

“I’m sorry I left you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it took something like this to get me to come back. But I’m here for good now. And I swear, Yeol, they are coming home. Both of them. I swear.”

He only wished he could tell Minseok and Sehun exactly the same thing.


	12. Breathe With My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Kim Minseok (Xiumin of EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Junmyeon!  
> You really are so heartbreakingly underrated for someone so talented. For the last seven years, you have been EXO's leader and their backbone and you deserve to be appreciated not just today but always. I love you, baby!

                 Minseok’s climb to reality was slow and excruciatingly painful. The back of his head felt like it was being pummelled with a hammer, a marching band making an instrument of his eardrums and his brain being squeezed until it was on the verge of bursting. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he started to feel the sludgy sliver of brain matter dribbling from his ear.

His ankle was throbbing, a new spasm of agony shooting up his entire leg every time he so much as twitched his toes and gathering by how difficult it was to draw breath, he was sure that at least two ribs were cracked if not broken.

He wondered why he couldn’t have just died in his sleep. That would be easier. It would be peaceful. He wouldn’t have to be in pain anymore. But then he would leave Sehun on his own, and that wasn’t okay. So he stayed. For Sehun. And that was the only reason why.

Every now and again – he had no measure of time – his maknae would run a hand through his hair, trying to gently coax him to consciousness so that he could tell him to wiggle his fingers so he could check that the ropes weren’t cutting off circulation to his hands. He understood why the kid was doing it, but if he hadn’t had the tape wrapped around his mouth, he probably would have asked to be left to sleep.

It took several moments before he processed the sound of sobbing coming from somewhere to his right and several more until he realised it was Jungkook. Yoongi must have been burned again. Minseok could still smell the residual ash from the cigarette butt.

“Hyung?”

He groaned to let Sehun know he was listening, the sound filtering through the tape with a strangled and constricted edge to it. He was so fucking thirsty.

“Can you breathe okay, hyung?”

No. He couldn’t breathe okay. Every rise and fall of his chest caused him the most inexplicable discomfort and he felt as if his ribcage was grating against his lungs and any minute now, they were going to burst inside of him.

“I’m going to massage your shoulders,” the voice continued, and it finally struck Minseok that this did not sound like Sehun. “I did it for Yuta-hyung a second ago but he’s sleeping now.”

Donghyuck. It was Donghyuck. The youngest of them in this horrific situation.

He sounded so scared. His voice was raw and croaky, as if he’d only stopped crying because his body had no more moisture to lose. Minseok wished he could hug him, stroke his hair, tell him that all the hyungs in this room were going to protect him from anything these monsters would throw his way.

But he couldn’t, so he just settled for a gentle hum, hoping that it sounded moderately welcoming.

The hands that ran along his back were trembling but as fingers started to work into the nots forming in his spine, it was heaven. His shoulders had been starting to scream from the effort of keeping his arms twisted behind his back but now Donghyuck’s knuckles were relieving the cramps from his muscles.

He hummed his gratitude and received a whispered, “you’re welcome, hyung,” in return.

Jungkook was still crying, apologising under his breath for whatever act he’d committed that had resulted in Yoongi’s torture, and Minseok tried to block him out. He didn’t want to hear anymore tears, anymore terror or guilt, but by now he’d realised that when your sight was taken away, every other sense was heightened to the maximum.

He almost wished those bastards had cut off his hearing, too.

“Hyung?” Donghyuck whimpered and Minseok tilted his head to the side, trying to indicate that he was listening. “Can I talk to you? I mean, like … Can I talk to you about what I’m feeling right now? I don’t want to scare Yuta-hyung.”

Minseok had learnt that crying through duct tape was not a good idea. The tears couldn’t escape through the lids that had been forced closed and it made his eyes sting with the salt. But he couldn’t really help it as he heard the terrifyingly timid voice of a boy so young having to ask permission to spill his thoughts.

He nodded, his head spinning and lights popping in his darkened vision, but he didn’t care. He wanted Donghyuck to know that he could tell him anything he wanted because he would always be a hyung first and foremost. He would always be here to listen, no matter how much pain he was in or how much he may want to go to sleep and never wake up again.

He would always listen.

“I’m scared,” Donghyuck started with, still massaging his senior’s shoulders as he whispered, clearly not wanting anyone else to hear them. “I don’t want to die.”

 _You’re not going to die,_ Minseok wished he could tell him. _We’re not going to let you die._

“But at the same time, I know that they’re not going to hurt me. And I’m relieved, hyung. I’m really, really relieved that they’re not hurting me. But now I feel guilty because Yuta-hyung’s the one they _are_ going to hurt.”

 _It’s not your fault,_ Minseok told him without words. _You can’t feel guilty for what these people are doing. Anything that happens to Yuta is not on you. It’s really important you know that. It’s not your fault._

“And I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to do everything they tell me to do but I’m so scared that I’ll mess up and they’ll hurt Hyung. I’ve seen what they’re doing to you and Jeonghan-sunbaenim and Yoongi-sunbaenim and I don’t want that to happen to Yuta-hyung. But at the same time, I don’t want to do the things they want me to do. I don’t want to eat while he starves and I don’t want to walk around and leave him in that chair where he can’t see and he can’t speak and he can’t move. I don’t want to help them torture him.”

_You’re not helping them. This is not your fault, Hyuckie, so please don’t blame yourself. You’re so brave and you’re doing everything right. The fact that they haven’t hurt Yuta is because of you. You’re protecting him. You’re keeping him safe and you’re doing such a good job, baby._

“I want Taeyong-hyung,” Donghyuck mumbled and as his hands travelled down Minseok’s back, the older boy grabbed hold of his fingers and squeezed as tightly as he could.

_I know I’m not Taeyong and I know I’m in a position right now where I can’t exactly protect you but I know Sehun and he will never let them touch you._

“I’m scared that he’s blaming himself for what happened. And I’m scared that the kids are crying at night because they think we’re going to die and I’m scared for Jisung. He’s so young, hyung. He’s so young and he’s going to put himself in danger for us. I know he will because he’s too stupid to stay out of it. I’m scared they’re going to hurt him, too.”

_We all are. But the police know what they’re doing. If they really do let Jisung drop off the money, they’ll have installed a million different precautions that will keep him safe. Nothing is going to happen to him, Hyuck. Nothing is going to touch him._

“I just wish I could call Mark-hyung. Or Johnny-hyung. Or Taeyong-hyung. I wish I could tell the police not to try anything because if they do, they’re going to make me … They’re going to make me hurt Yuta-hyung and I … I can’t. I can’t hurt him. They can’t try anything because I can’t cut … I can’t cut him up like they said I’ll have to and … and … I’m so scared, hyung.”

Minseok felt Donghyuck’s forehead pressing into the space between his shoulder blades and the tears permeating his T-Shirt as that little boy cried into his hyung’s back. And even if Minseok wasn’t gagged, he wouldn’t have anything to say. He wouldn’t even know how to start.

Because the truth was, he couldn’t do anything to protect this child. He was barely even strong enough to lift his head. He was in too much pain, he was too hungry and too thirsty and too tired. If something came into this room right now and threatened his baby, he would be completely helpless.  

“I want to go home,” Donghyuck sobbed. “I want my bed and my hyungs and my goddamn games console and I even want Renjun to tell me I’m stupid and Jungwoo to throw water on me while I’m sleeping and I … I want to go home so bad. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to hurt Yuta-hyung. I don’t want to watch them do this stuff to you anymore. I … Hyung … I … Hyung …”

He was panicking. Minseok’s baby was having a panic attack right beside him and he couldn’t do anything about it. He tried to form words but the tape was pressing too firmly against his lips and all his throat emitted was an urgent grunt.

Where was Sehun? Wherever he was, he needed to get his ass over here right now and calm this child down before he passed out from sheer lack of oxygen. Someone needed to do something because Minseok couldn’t.

He pulled on the cords around his wrists, pain receptors on overdrive as the ropes dug into his skin and rubbed it raw. He tried to twist in his chair and his chest blossomed into agony, his injured ribs grating against each other and he muffled a scream of pain.

And Donghyuck was still hyperventilating. He fell away from Minseok’s chair and now the older boy couldn’t feel him. He could only hear him, gasping and sobbing in fear and desperation. He was probably clawing at his throat, trying to break through the skin and let the air in and no one was fucking helping him.

But then,

“Breathe, Hyuckie. Come on, baby, listen to me and breathe with me.”

Sehun had come from wherever he’d been hiding – whether he was sleeping or trying to find an escape – and he was holding the boy Minseok wanted to hold more than he wanted to breathe.

“Donghyuck? Put your hand on my heart. There you go. That’s it. Can you feel that? Breathe with my heart, Donghyuck.”

That was not Sehun. If Minseok wasn’t mistaken, that was Jungkook. Jungkook had left Yoongi’s side to come and save Donghyuck. He didn’t even know him and still, he was bringing him down from the sudden onset attack.

“You’re doing so well, Donghyuck. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I swear to you, Donghyuck. You are going to be just fine.”

And that was Chan. They were all there. They were all helping him and Minseok was still struggling against the ropes, wanting nothing more than to break free and pull that little boy against his chest, but they were there and they were helping him.

The hyungs could do nothing. They were hurting and they were exhausted and they were slowly dying of dehydration but it was okay because the maknaes were stepping into the vacancies. The maknaes would protect them. The maknaes would look after each other. The maknaes would get them out of here.

The maknaes were in control.

And on any other given day, that thought would be petrifying. Sehun couldn’t even put his breakfast bowl in the dish washer. But now, it was the most comforting aspect of this situation.

As long as those kids had each other, they were going to be okay.

“Hyung,” came the voice to his left, the sudden interruption in his thought process making him jump, instantly whining as his injured ankle scuffed the floor. “I’m sorry, hyung. It’s just me: Sehun. You need to calm down. You’re hurting yourself.”

A hand closed around his and he noticed for the first time how painful the welts on his wrists had become as he twisted and turned and struggled in an attempt to get to Donghyuck. They stung with every new movement as the rough fibres attacked the wounds that were now unguarded by the skin that had rubbed away.

He moaned in discomfort, chin rolling onto his chest in his exhaustion. He was so, so tired and so, so thirsty and he wanted to move somewhere. He didn’t want to sit in this chair any longer. It was torture. But then again, wasn’t that the goal?

“Donghyuck’s fine,” Sehun continued to soothe, kneading Minseok’s thighs in an attempt to help him regain feeling in his legs. “He’s sitting with Yuta right now. It’s okay.”

Minseok grunted in response, his quadriceps spasming slightly with the stimulation after such a long stretch of paralysis. He wanted to go home, too.

He wondered if Junmyeon was crying at that moment, condemning himself to wallow in guilt because he hadn’t been there. Their leader always wanted to be there when something happened and when he wasn’t, it tore him apart from the inside out.

And Jongin and Chanyeol. They had been in that car, too. Were they alright? Were they even still alive? Minseok could barely remember the crash, only the screech of tyres on tarmac and then a bone-shattering impact on his left side before darkness consumed him.

How long did the two of them sit in that wreck before an ambulance got there? They must have been so scared. It must have been cold. They probably hadn’t been able to move. Had one of them passed away while they waited for help to arrive? Did one of them listen to the other die?

He had no way of knowing.

He had no way of doing anything.   


	13. If They Hadn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Kim Namjoon (RM of BTS)

            He had stopped to talk to Soobin.

It was the only thing Namjoon could think about as he stood at the hospital room window, staring out over the lake where the willow trees bowed sombrely to sip at the mirror surface. That night when he’d left the company building, he’d seen Soobin and he’d stopped and they’d talked for almost twenty minutes.

If they hadn’t, he might have gotten home in time.

If they hadn’t, he might have walked in on those guys taking his friends.

If they hadn’t, he might have been able to stop them.

He would never forgive himself for that. As their leader, they had trusted him with their safety and their protection and he had been dawdling aimlessly while they were being attacked. He could still remember the feeling of Jin’s blood seeping through his clothes as he cradled him.

“They wanted me.”

Namjoon whipped around so fast that he almost lost his balance and a strangled cry of relief escaped his lips before he could stop it. He staggered across the room and sank into the chair beside the bed, reaching out for Jin’s hand.

The eldest was blinking back at him, sluggish and slow, and a single tear rolled down the side of his face to accumulate in his hair. He had one of those nasal cannulas hooked behind his ears to help him breathe and his skin was sapped of all colour, but he was awake. Finally.

“You’re okay,” Namjoon told him. “You’re alive. You did it. You’re alive.”

“They wanted me,” Jin repeated, whitened lips barely managing to form syllables in his weakened state. “They wanted me.”

Namjoon frowned, giving Jin’s hand a gentle squeeze without pressing too hard for fear that he would hear bones breaking beneath his fingers. His hyung had only just woken after three days of terrifying unconsciousness. He was confused, still high on the drugs and therefore not making any sense.

“It’s okay, hyung,” he soothed in a pathetic attempt at reassurance when he himself wanted to burst into tears and cling onto his older brother for dear life. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Joon, they wanted me,” Jin said for the fourth time and from the look in his eyes – the guilt, the fear, the trauma – some part of Namjoon realised this was not the garble of a drugged-up man.

“What do you mean?” he whispered, almost too scared of knowing the answer to allow it to be given.

“They tried to take me.” Jin was crying harder now, jaw shuddering with the effort of containing his sobs as tear after tear made the steady journey down the side of his face. “But I think I was too strong or something. I fought too hard. And then … then …”

His words caught in his throat and Namjoon could feel his own eyes starting to well as his hyung told their story. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to hear what those people had done in order to put Jin and Hoseok and Jimin in the state they’d been in when Namjoon had found them. He didn’t want to know.

“He stabbed me, Joon,” Jin whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as though he could hide from the memories. “I was screaming and struggling and … and … I felt it go in, Joon. I felt the knife go in.”

The tears were falling thick and fast for both of them but Namjoon felt like he didn’t deserve to cry. Jin remembered everything. He remembered a blade entering his body, slicing through flesh and muscle and tissue. How much must it have hurt? How long would it take him to forget?

“And then it was just there,” Jin ploughed on, mercilessly, and Namjoon knew that he needed to get this out of his system before he could start his emotional healing process but it was just as harrowing to hear as it was to find him bleeding out on the bedroom floor.

“I felt it inside me and then I saw his hand coming back and I tried to scream at him to get away from me but he didn’t listen and … and he pulled it out and it hurt … it hurt so bad, Joon, and I tried to shout but my mouth was filled with blood and I couldn’t catch my breath … I … and then he did it again.”

Both Namjoon’s hands closed around his hyung’s trembling fingers and he brought them to his lips, trying to tell him without words that he was safe now, that it was over, that no one would ever touch him like that again.

“I still remember his eyes. He had … He had a mask on but I could still see his eyes and I don’t think I’ll ever forget those eyes, Joon. It was almost like they were smiling at me, like they were enjoying it. And when he pulled the knife out the second time, I thought he was going to go for a third. I really thought I was going to die, Joon. I thought I was going to die.”

His words were so disjointed now that they were barely coherent but he kept talking and Namjoon kept listening because this is what Jin needed and his leader was there to give it.

“And then they took Yoongi instead,” Jin choked, entire body heaving with the effort of dragging out all those sobs and he clutched at his hair with his free hand, tugging on the strands in some kind of self-punishing activity. “And I couldn’t stop them, Joon. I couldn’t move. And Hobi was hurt and I tried to get to him but there was so much blood and I was hurting so bad and I couldn’t breathe. And I tried to hold on, Joon. I tried to hold on but … but I c-couldn’t … and they took Yoongi because I wouldn’t let them have me. I should have let them have me.”

“No,” Namjoon said, voice hardened and strong even though the rest of him was spilling tears left, right and centre. “No, hyung. No. They were going to do whatever they wanted and there’s nothing you could have done to stop them. You … You could have died, hyung.”

“Well, maybe I should’ve!” Jin shouted, still clawing at his hair as his other hand ripped itself from Namjoon’s grip and he started punching himself in the chest. “They took him because of me! I … I should’ve died!”

Namjoon could barely see through the haze over his corneas as he grabbed hold of both Jin’s wrists and held them steady, preventing him from hurting himself even more as he gave his hyung a shake just so that he would look at him.

“I held you!” he yelled, ignoring Jin’s look of shock. “I came back home and I found Jimin and Hobi and you … I thought you were already gone. And I held you in my arms as you were bleeding all over me and I begged you not to die. I begged you, hyung! And you listened to me. You listened. So don’t you dare say that ever again! Don’t you … Don’t you dare!”

He had to let go of the stunned boy’s wrists as he turned away from the bed and swiped at the tears and snot accumulating a disgustingly slimy paste on his face. That had been the first time he’d properly talked about the night he found them. Sure, he’d spoken to the police but that was the first time he properly _talked._

It felt good to finally let it all out. To admit that he’d been scared, too. That he was feeling guilty, too. That he wished he’d done more, too.

When he faced Jin again, however, there was a different look in the older boy’s eyes. It was still fear but it wasn’t the same anymore. Now it was bigger, more profound. It was more like terror.

“You …” he whispered, his breaths wheezing slightly as he tried to recover from his outburst when his body was still so feeble. “You said Jimin and Hobi … and me.”

“Yeah. I found you.”

“So where are Taehyung and Jungkook?”

Namjoon’s heart caved in on itself. Why? Why, God, what had they done to deserve this? What had he done to warrant a punishment so fucking terrible that he had to relive it over and over and over again, even when he closed his eyes.

“Namjoon,” Jin breathed, panic increasing. “Where are Taehyung and Jungkook?”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. It wasn’t fucking fair!

“Tae … Tae was in the bathroom,” Namjoon started, shuffling his chair closer to the bed but refusing to meet his hyung’s eye. He couldn’t bear to see the horror that would undoubtedly cross that colourless face. “Yoongi-hyung told him to hide and he did so I didn’t find him until he made his own way to the hospital. He’s … He’s fine. He, Jimin and Hoseok are at Sejin-hyung’s house.”

He took a deep breath, blinking back tears and praying to a God he no longer believed in to end their suffering right then and now. He longed for a police officer to suddenly burst through the door and tell them that Yoongi and Jungkook and all the others had been found safe and unhurt. But alas, such a fortune wasn’t going to befall them.

“Jungkook … They took him, too.”

He closed his eyes to save himself having to look upon Jin as a wail of devastated despair filtered from the eldest’s throat. He just sat there, pathetic and stupid-looking, as his hyung screamed himself hoarse before a doctor finally burst in and upped his morphine dose, luring him back into the realm of unconsciousness to protect him from further anguish.  

“Namjoon-ssi?” the doctor called out, crouching in front of Namjoon and gently tapping his knee to get his attention. “Namjoon-ssi, are you alright?”

What kind of question was that?

“Namjoon-ssi, Seokjin-ssi is still very sick. He has to be kept calm or he could cause himself further damage. Are you listening to me, Namjoon-ssi?”

She squawked in shock as Namjoon suddenly leapt from his chair and stormed out of the room without giving her so much as a sideways glance. He couldn’t bear it. He just couldn’t. Not anymore.

Hoseok’s concussion had hit them all like a truck. He had been discharged yesterday evening but he was still confused and forgetful and struggling to make sense of the world around him. The doctors had told them to keep him calm.

Taehyung and Jimin were traumatised. There was no other way of putting it. Both of them had needed sedating upon arrival at the hospital just to get them to stop crying and now they were on the right path to being diagnosed with a mild form of PTSD. The doctors had told Namjoon to keep them calm, too.

And now Jin. Once again, keep him calm. And Namjoon couldn’t take it. What about him? Why shouldn’t he be kept calm? Why did he have to be the only one who freaked out? It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

He understood that they were hurt and terrified and that they needed time to recover and maybe Namjoon was being selfish. Maybe he deserved to endure this torture alone. He had stopped to talk to Soobin, after all. He hadn’t been home in time.

He couldn’t protect them like he used to.

Hoseok had vomited for a whole twenty-four hours after he woke up, repeatedly heaving over the toilet bowl with tears streaming down his face and bile burning the back of his throat as his stomach protested and yet had to give in to the bleed in his brain. And Namjoon hadn’t been able to make it stop.

Taehyung had roused from his drug-induced slumber with a thousand questions tumbling from the tip of his tongue, and once he’d learned the answers – once he realised he’d hidden in the bathroom while his best friends were snatched away – he had cried for hours. And Namjoon hadn’t been able to comfort him.

Jimin had his first nightmare, one of many more to come, that had him screaming at the top of his lungs as he rolled around in his bed, in constant danger of falling off as he got tangled up in the bedsheets and only caused himself more terror. And Namjoon hadn’t been able to hold him tight enough.

Seokjin had lain there in that hospital bed for almost seventy-two hours, a paper figurine with just a pulse on a machine’s screen to prove there was still life within him despite how many organs that knife had sliced through. And Namjoon hadn’t been able to heal his wounds.

And Yoongi. And Jungkook. Were they crying right now? Were they hurt? Were they screaming? Were they being tortured? Were they together or had they been separated? Were they even still breathing? All he had to go on was a blurry image of Jungkook’s tear-stained face as he listened to Sehun read that ransom note. And Namjoon couldn’t do a single thing to save them.

His hand was trembling as it reached for his phone, his knees so weak that he had to lower himself to the floor in the middle of the hospital corridor before finally managing to dial the number he needed.

The dial tone droned three times before there was the click of an accept button being pressed and a voice that was too joyous, too happy, blared through the speakers.

“Namjoon! I was literally just thinking about you! Hey, do you want to come over? We just got takeaway but Jinyoung and Mark-hyung have backed out so there’s extra. I really miss you, buddy. We gotta meet up.”

And Namjoon just cried. He just sat there and he just cried because he had no idea what else he could do.

“Jackson … Can you come to the hospital? Something’s happened.”  


	14. Everywhere, Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Jeon Wonwoo (SEVENTEEN)

           Blood.

It was everywhere.

The blood.

Seeping through his shirt.

Sticking his fingers together.

The blood.

It never went away.

No matter how many times he showered.

It was always there.

On his face.

His hands.

His hair.

His clothes.

He twisted the taps in the hospital bathroom until there was a gushing waterfall of both hot and cold liquid that splattered up off the bottom of the basin and painted his shirt with tiny darkened dots.

Wonwoo shoved both hands under the faucet, rubbing them against each other in his desperation to just _get it off._ The blood. It wouldn’t come off. He piled great dollops of soap onto his palms and scrubbed until his skin started to prune, his cells breaking off his body entirely with the force of his cleaning ritual.

The water was running red, a pinkish tinge splashing about in the bowl in front of him. Seungcheol’s blood. Everywhere. Always. Seungcheol’s blood all over him. And it never came off.

His shirt was sticking to his skin, scarlet fluid fusing fabric to fibres and painting his body with his best friend’s blood. Blood. Everywhere. Blood. It was always there. He pulled handfuls of tissue paper from the dispenser, shoved them beneath the tap and attacked his clothes.

Tiny little balls of tissue started flaking off, getting stuck in the bloodied material and the makeshift rag was stained scarlet in seconds but it still wasn’t coming off. The blood. It was everywhere. All the time. Seungcheol’s blood. Just there. Blood.

Wonwoo was crying now. Ugly, snotty, disgusting sobs that echoed off the walls and reverberated in his own head but nothing was as deafening as the blood. It was so loud. It was everywhere and it was loud and it just wouldn’t go away.

He ripped his shirt off, exposing his dripping body and shoved the ruined piece of cloth into the sink. It stoppered the plughole, the basin filling in seconds and overflowing on the tiled floor. It was swamping his feet, soaking through his shoes and into his socks.

And it was red. Everything was red. Red with Seungcheol’s blood. Everywhere. All the time. Blood.

“Hyung, are you in …?”

The voice that cut through the crashing of water against porcelain stuttered to a stop the moment it’s owner registered the sight before him, but Wonwoo didn’t care who it was. He had to get the blood off. Out. Off. Not here. Anywhere but here. Go away. Blood. Go away.

“Hyung, stop!”

Hands closed around his forearms, trying to tug him away from the sink as rivulets of bloodied water started rolling down the sides to join the clouded lake on the floor, but Wonwoo resisted, his crying increasing and his harsh breathing starting to crush his ribcage.

“Wonwoo-hyung, it’s okay!”

It wasn’t okay. There was blood. Everywhere. So much blood. And it never went away. He needed it to go away. It couldn’t be on him anymore. It was always on him. The blood. Seungcheol’s blood. It never went away.

“Wonwoo-hyung, you’re hallucinating! There isn’t any blood! It’s okay! It’s okay … It’s okay …”

He blinked. He pawed at his eyes with wet hands and finally the demons in his head decided enough was enough.

There was no blood. Nothing here was red. It was all white. A white shirt balled up in a white sink as water gushed over the rim and onto the floor. No red. No blood. Not Seungcheol’s. Not anyone’s. It wasn’t real. There was no blood.

He let out a strangled sob as his sanity finally returned and he felt arms tighten around his body, lowering him gently to the floor as his knees gave out and he clung to the chest he was cradled against and drowned in his own tears. 

“It’s alright …” came the soothing whispers from above him as hands stroked through his hair and a jacket was wrapped around his shirtless body to protect him from the tremors that weren’t due to the cold. “It’s alright … It’s alright … It’s alright …”

“Seungcheol-hyung …” Wonwoo finally managed to choke, his eyes screwed shut and his fists clenching in the material of the jacket that smothered him. “Seungcheol-hyung …”

“He’s just a few doors down, alive and recovering and safe. What you saw wasn’t real. It was just another flashback.”

Wonwoo nodded, snivelling pathetically as he finally managed to start clawing his way back to calmness. The shame would kick in soon, the embarrassment at being found in such a position by one of his little brothers. This was the third time in as many days that this had happened.

A psychiatrist said it was post-traumatic stress disorder. His mind was blaring alarm bells constantly, unable to process the emotions that had blitzed through him as he cradled the body of a bleeding boy in the hallway of their very own house. And so he was doomed to relive that day over and over and over again without mercy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from crying as he pulled away from the cramped embrace and drew the jacket closer around him. “I don’t mean to keep doing this. I just … I can’t forget.”

“Hey.”

He looked up into Seokmin’s deadly serious expression as the younger boy cupped his hyung’s face and absorbed the excess tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“It’s okay, hyung. I mean it. It isn’t your fault.”

It took several more moments before Wonwoo decided he was ready to stand. His legs were shaky and unstable and his entire body was shivering as he clung to the sink for support and tried not take in the almighty mess he’d made of the hospital bathroom.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seokmin told him as he helped his hyung stuff his arms into the jacket sleeves, pulling the zipper right up to his chin to conceal his bare torso. “I’ll let the cleaning staff know and they’ll send someone to fix it. Do you want to go and see Seungcheol-hyung?”

Wonwoo nodded mutely. Both times he’d had a flashback before now, he’d needed to set eyes on Seungcheol to prove to his addled mind that his leader was alive and breathing and no longer bleeding all over him.

Seokmin kept a firm grip on his elbow as they tottered down the corridor, Wonwoo’s footsteps so unsteady that a passing nurse asked them if they needed a wheelchair, but finally they pushed open the hospital room door and stepped into the aroma of beeping and disinfectant smells.

Hansol looked up from where he was sitting beside the bed, holding his sleeping leader’s hand and uselessly adjusting the sling that kept Seungcheol’s arm bound to his chest. He seemed to take in the demeanour of his friends and come to the correct conclusion in a heartbeat.

“Another one?”

Wonwoo nodded shamefully as he lowered himself into the nearest chair, Seokmin finally deciding it was safe to let go of him, and folded his arms on the mattress, resting his head on top of them and closing his eyes.

He was exhausted. Flashbacks were exhausting. PTSD was exhausting. Everything at the moment was exhausting and he missed Jeonghan and he missed Chan and Seungcheol was too drugged and weak to do anything at the moment and Joshua was stretched thin trying to make sure each and every one of them was alright and Wonwoo was exhausted.

“I feel like I should have done something,” Hansol suddenly blurted and Wonwoo raised his head slightly to stare at him, blinking sluggishly as Seokmin pulled up another chair and sat down.

“What could you have done?”

“I don’t know …” the boy sighed, raking his hands through his unwashed hair. “Tried to hide a phone. Offer to let them take me instead. Tackle them. Try to stop them. Something, for fuck’s sake, but all I did was lie on the ground like a coward.”

“Hansol,” Seokmin whispered tentatively. “That’s what all of us did.”

“Not Seungcheol-hyung,” Hansol spat dejectedly and all eyes turned on their unconscious leader and his pasty pale skin and the bandages padded against his shoulder where the gunshot wound resided beneath the gauze. “Seungcheol-hyung tried to stop them.”

“Yeah, and look where that got him,” Wonwoo countered. “Shot.”

There was a stretch of biting silence, icy and cold and lonely and scared and tired. And then:

“They’re going to kill them, aren’t they?”

Hansol’s words sent a shockwave through Wonwoo’s entire body and he literally flinched, jerking up off the bed to stare at the boy who had just insinuated that he may end up being the youngest of their group.  

“Why would you say that?” Seokmin hissed, every last shade of colour drained from his thin face.

“I’m just trying to be realistic,” Hansol responded flatly. He was staring at Seungcheol but his eyes were glassy and blank. He was just as gone as the rest of them. “I mean, that’s how these things work, right? They say they’ll give them back if we pay up but as soon as they’ve got their money, they’re just going to kill them anyway. Then there’ll be no chance of the police catching them. At least, that's what I'd do.”

Wonwoo had to resist the urge to vomit. Hansol had just regurgitated the most disgusting opinion he’d ever expressed and he’d done it without batting an eyelid, as though it didn’t really bother him and he was just talking about the weather over the breakfast table.

And the worst part was that Wonwoo couldn’t find a single thing to contradict him on.

The chance of Chan and Jeonghan making it back alive was slim to none. And even if – by some miracle – they did, they would never be the same again. Wonwoo’s world had been turned upside down and he wasn’t the one being held for ransom by a bunch of sick psychopaths who had put a bullet in his best friend’s body like it was just another day at the office.  

“It’s true, hyung, and you know it is. Jeonghan-hyung … Chan … They’re never coming home.”


	15. Kinder To Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Oh Sehun (EXO)

              “Hyung …?” Sehun whispered for the fourth time, fighting the urge to burst into tears as Minseok still remained unresponsive to his gentle attempts at rousing him. “Hyung, please wake up.”

His best friend was slumped in the chair, his head lolling forwards so that his chin touched his chest and the breaths he was dragging through his nose were slow and painful-sounding. Sehun knew he was draining. He knew he was dying. And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Hyung, please …” he begged and finally, Minseok let out a soft moan of protest as he was drawn from his peaceful oblivion. “Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God.”

He’d really thought the end was drawing nearer, but now that he was watching Minseok gradually return to consciousness, half of him felt the guilt piling up deep inside his gut. It would be kinder to let his hyung sleep so that he wouldn’t be in pain, but he couldn’t shake the selfish need to prove to himself that the older boy was still alive.

He reached behind the chair and found Minseok’s hands, taking hold of his limp fingers as he stroked a sweaty strand of hair from the boy’s forehead.

“How bad’s the pain, hyung?” he asked softly, waiting with baited breath as Minseok slowly tapped a number into his palm. “Nine … I’m sorry, hyung. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep. It’s okay.”

Minseok seemed to obey without a moment’s hesitation and Sehun furiously blinked back his tears before straightening and marching up the rickety stairs that led to the locked door at the top. He knew it was their only exit and he knew it was barred but it was the furthest place from Minseok and he couldn’t watch his hyung suffer anymore.

He sank onto the top step, back pressed against the door and face buried in his hands. He didn’t know what to do anymore. As the eldest one who wasn’t tied up and on the brink of starvation, he knew he was supposed to be displaying some kind of strength but he couldn’t.

If he had to eat from one more fast-food bucket while Minseok’s heartrate continued to slow to a terrifying frequency then he was afraid he might lose his mind. He might get his hyung killed with how he would attack those monsters and that was why it was so frustrating. Minseok was the one getting the punishments for his mistakes.

“How long do you think we’ve been here?” came Jungkook’s voice as the boy came to rest beside him, staring down the stairs at the four chairs and their occupants.

Sehun raised his head and sighed, deep and long, “I’d say … Four days? Maybe five?”

He felt rather than saw Jungkook nodding beside him, “And how long can someone survive without food and water?”

“Definitely no longer than a week but considering how they’ve all had some kind of beating, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them died tonight.”

He hadn’t meant the words to come out so harsh but Jungkook didn’t even flinch. He just sat there with his eyes blank and his clothes and skin stinking with body odour and sweat. If they ever got out of this, Sehun thought, a shower would be the first thing he had.

“It’ll be Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook whispered and Sehun raised his eyebrows, turning his head slightly to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“If one of them does die tonight,” Jungkook clarified deftly. “It’ll be Yoongi-hyung.”

And Sehun knew he was right. Maybe it was to do with how thin he had been before all this or how many times he’d been smacked and punched and burned, but Yoongi was fading fastest. He hadn’t been responding to anything recently and his breaths were sounding painfully harsh.

They were all dying. All four of them. Minseok, Yoongi, Jeonghan and Yuta. But Yoongi would go first, and Sehun could see what that was doing to Jungkook.

“Do you think they’re going to pay the ransom?” the younger boy questioned. “The companies, I mean. Do you think they’ll pay up? Do you think they’ll risk Jisung?”

Sehun wished they wouldn’t. He really, truly, deeply wished that Jisung would stay as far away from all of this as possible, and that’s what he told Jungkook but his words sounded hollow and almost regretful because Jisung was their only chance of surviving.

“But,” he continued, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. “Even if they do pay, that doesn’t mean they’ll let us go. It’s too much of a risk that we’ll be able to identify them for the police. So … That also means that … they might very well let the hyungs die.”

As if on cue, Jeonghan started coughing and the two on the stairs watched as Chan fell apart. He couldn’t do anything to help as his best friend spluttered and choked on a dry throat, gasping in great big drawn out wheezes in an attempt to inhale oxygen and the boy was sobbing as he stroked his hand through Jeonghan’s hair and repeated the words, “just breathe”.

“They did a good job,” Jungkook whispered. “They knew exactly how to stop us fighting back. They’re starving them and depriving them of water so that they’re too weak to even stand. They know we won’t try to escape because they can’t walk and we’d never leave them. They … They thought it all out so perfectly.”

His voice cracked and Sehun had a feeling he should put an arm around him or say something comforting but he didn’t have the energy. And then he despised himself. He was the one _with_ the energy. He was the one they were feeding and Minseok was the one they were killing. He had no right to complain about having no energy.

And then he said possibly the worst thing he’d ever said in his life.

“Last night … I was listening to Minseok-hyung’s breathing getting worse and worse and I … I thought … Jungkook, I thought about smothering him.”

Jungkook’s entire body jolted as though he’d been electrocuted, his head whipping around to stare at Sehun with two hugely wide eyes brimming in fear and shock and disgust, and Sehun understood perfectly.

When the idea had come to him as he lay on the ground at Minseok’s feet all those hours ago, he too had hated himself. But then he’d really thought about it and realised that maybe it wasn’t as monstrous as it had first appeared.

“I know it sounds awful,” he whispered, oblivious to Jungkook’s expression of horror. “I know it’s … I know it’s murder but they’re in so much pain, Jungkook. So, so much pain. And they’re already dying. They might already have some permanent internal damage from the dehydration and if that’s right then it won’t matter if we get rescued because they’re not going to make it anyway. It’s … Wouldn’t it be kinder to … to … You know …”

“No,” Jungkook spat at him, horror morphing to hatred. “No, I don’t know, so say it. Go on. Say it.”

Sehun shook his head, scrubbing at his eyes as he turned his gaze to his feet. “You know what I was going to say, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, I think I do but I was just giving you one more chance to prove you’re not a psychopathic dick.”

Exo’s maknae was surprised as the bitter chuckle that squeezed itself out of his throat. He didn’t know what was happening to him but the darkness and the fear and the helplessness was starting to distort his morality. He knew that.

“Can you give me one reason why we shouldn’t?”

“Shouldn’t what?” Jungkook shrieked, leaping up from the stairs and retreating back towards the ground, staring at Sehun with his mouth hanging open. “Shouldn’t kill them? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“No!” Sehun yelled back, pushing himself up off the wooden structure and rounding on Jungkook with all the pent-up frustration he’d been trying to keep hidden away. “I’m thinking perfectly clear and they are suffering!”

He threw out a hand towards the others, oblivious to Donghyuck and Chan’s alarmed expressions and nervous jittery movements at the sight of the two people they were looking to arguing with each other.

“If it was me in that position then I’d want to die, too!”

“Well, they’re not you!” Jungkook screamed, backing up until he reached the bottom of the stairs as Sehun suddenly came pounding down, too, gripping his hair in both hands. “You don’t have the right to make that decision for them!”

What was happening? He couldn’t get control of his emotions. All he could think was how Minseok’s pain was at a level nine, how Jeonghan sounded like he was trying to hack up a lung, how Yoongi already had one foot in his grave and how slim the possibility was that any of them were getting out of this alive.

He stumbled over to Minseok, dropping to his knees in front of his hyung and placing both hands on the smaller thighs, staring up into the face that was mostly masked by duct tape but still portrayed just how pale and dry its owner was.

“What’s going on?” Donghyuck whispered, and Sehun wanted to tell him to shut up.

He wanted silence. He wanted to think. He wanted to figure out what the hell was happening to him and he couldn’t handle consoling a boy who had barely just made it into adulthood while he did it. But Jungkook seemed to have other ideas.

“He wants us to kill them,” he shouted at the rest of the room. “He thinks we should put them down like dogs because they’re too weak to be of any use anymore!”

“That’s not what I said!” Sehun bellowed back, screwing up his eyes and burying his face in Minseok’s lap in an attempt to hide from the pressure building up in his skull. He felt like he was suffocating. “I don’t want to … I don’t want them to die … but … but …”

“But what?” Chan hissed, adding his own anger to the mixture and by now, all four of them seemed to have forgotten that the very people they were discussing could probably hear them. “It would be a kindness? We’d be putting them out of their misery? Fuck you!”

Sehun could feel his throat starting to close up, droplets of sweat rolling down his stomach. He kept his eyes firmly screwed shut, trying to get control of his breathing as he continued to cling to Minseok like his life depended on it.

Then there was an awful, gut-wrenching spluttering sound and everybody looked to Yoongi as the boy moved for what was probably the first time in the last twelve hours as his entire body seemed to heave with a string of raw, strangled coughs.

Jungkook was already on his knees in front of him, taking his face in his hands and pulling it towards his chest so he could hold his hyung as close as possible, unable to do anything else to soothe his lungs as they shrivelled and dried up from lack of sustenance.

And when he was finally finished, Jungkook looked up from over the slumped form of his unconscious best friend, and glared right into Sehun’s eyes.

“If you think,” he whispered, his face wet with tears and his hands trembling as they stroked Yoongi’s hair. “That I am ever going to lay a hand on him then I don’t want anything more to do with you.”

Sehun nodded, eyes streaming, nose spewing snot like some disgusting fountain of mucus as he watched Jungkook handling that boy with so much care and so much love and finally seemed to realise what he’d just done.

“I’m sorry …” he whispered, returning his head to Minseok’s lap and sobbing into his hyung’s shirt. “I’m so sorry … I don’t know what’s happening to me … I swear, I don’t know … I … I’m so, so sorry.”

He was just as bad as these people who’d taken him. What had he been thinking? What demon had possessed him to make him believe that murdering his best friend was really the right thing to do? What was this place doing to him? Was he going mad? Had they poisoned his food and planted these thoughts in his mind? Was that even possible?

The door at the top of the stairs reverberated off the opposite wall and Sehun wanted to scream at whoever was descending into their realm of darkness and despair. _Go away,_ he wished he could screech at the top of his lungs. _We don’t want you here! We don’t want your food! Just go away!_

But then there was the sound of plastic hitting concrete, crinkling and sloshing on impact, and he couldn’t help but open his eyes to see four water bottles rolling over the ground. He raised his head to see Beanie standing halfway up the stairs, arms resting on the bannisters as he glared down at them.

“Well?” he growled out when no one made a move. “Do you want them to die of dehydration? Hurry up. You have three minutes.”  


	16. Hope For Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Min Yoongi (Suga of BTS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Donghyuck! My ray of sassy sunshine, you never fail to bring a smile to my face. I love your cheekiness and your extraness and just everything about you. Please be happy forever and don't get hurt again because my heart can't take it.

            Agony.

It was the only word in his vocabulary because it was the only thing he knew. Pure, undiluted agony.

His oesophagus felt like sandpaper, his vocal cords grating together every time he tried to moisten his throat by coughing. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they were slowly turning to dust inside of him. His head was killing him, a combination of the dehydration and the deep gash that was still stinging mercilessly below his hairline from where they’d shattered the vase over his head.

And there was a certain spot, just beneath his right collarbone that screamed in pain every time a simple draft of air wafted past it. He’d lost of count of how many times they’d burned him in that same place, over and over and over and over. Sometimes, he didn’t even know why. He just woke up to the sensation of his skin sizzling off.

The idea of death was just too warm and inviting.

He wanted to just let the grim reaper take him as he slept. He wanted to give up, let go and accept the decaying skeletal arms that reached for him through the darkness, and he wouldn’t have a single regret.

“Yoongi-hyung, I need you to wake up.”

And there was the only reason he was still here. The _only_ reason.

“I have water, Yoongi-hyung. Please, I need you to drink something.”

Yoongi was so thirsty. He would have bitten off his own tongue to feel the sensation of cool liquid trickling down his throat, but he just didn’t have the energy to raise his head or move his fingers or even let out a small groan to show Jungkook that he was listening. He didn’t have the energy for anything.

“Yoongi-hyung, are you awake? Can you squeeze my hand if you’re awake?”

Move one finger. Just one. That’s all he needed to do and then Jungkook would take care of everything else. Just one little twitch. One spasm of a dying muscle. Just one … Just try …

“That’s it, hyung. I’m right here. I’m right here, hyung. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth, okay? It’s probably going to hurt but I’ll do it quickly.”

Hurt. Funny. Everything already hurt. What was a tiny bit more pain to add to the pile? He could take it. He didn’t have the strength to refuse anyway.

“Stay with me, hyung. Stay here with me.”

There was the sound of adhesive strips being peeled off each other and then Yoongi felt his head being jerked to the side. Jungkook hissed in apology and used his free hand to steady his big brother’s chin while he made quick work of the rest of the gag, Yoongi’s head still lolling in whichever direction it could.

The tape seared at his skin, ripping the hairs from their follicles and collecting them on its back as Jungkook brought it round and round and round, unwinding it as fast as he could so the discomfort would be over quicker, but to Yoongi, it still felt like he was taking too long.

And he was so thirsty.

But then there was air on the lower part of his face for the first time in an eternity. His lips were stuck together with the sticky residue but he peeled them apart and allowed his mouth to open, flexing the muscles in his jaw that had probably forgotten what it was to function.

Something trickled down his chin and he wasn’t sure whether it was saliva or blood but Jungkook’s sleeve came from nowhere, mopping at the stream until Yoongi’s face was dry again.

“I’m going to pour the water in your mouth, hyung, okay? I know it’s hard but try to swallow as much as you can.”

A hand cupped the back of his head and he allowed his neck to bend like elastic, falling backwards so that Jungkook took the entirety of his skull’s weight, and when he felt the first few droplets settled around the water bottle’s rim touch his lips, he wanted to cry.

Maybe he did cry. At this point, he was too delirious to tell.

It was like a ray of sunshine streaming through the tiny window at the top of the hole he’d been thrown down and left to rot with his legs broken and his hands cut off. That was how it felt to taste water after so, so, so long.

He gulped ravenously, not even bothering as the rivulets ran down his neck, his head moving forward in his desperation to have more – _get more, need more –_ but then the plastic was pulled away and he couldn’t stop the tears from gathering, even if they couldn’t fall from behind the remaining tape. He hadn’t had enough. He hadn’t had nearly enough.

“You have to go slow, hyung,” Jungkook murmured, stroking Yoongi’s hair in reassurance as the older boy started to panic. “I’ve only got one bottle and if you spill it all then I have nothing left to give you.”

Okay. He understood. He would go slow. But if he didn’t get something right now, he was absolutely positive that he was going to turn to sand and crumble away into nothingness.

“Do you understand, hyung?”

“Yes …”

The soft, rasping word was a surprise even to him. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to make a single sound but here he was with his voice box fighting tooth and nail to produce syllables, no matter how faint and feeble they were.

He could almost feel Jungkook’s smile, even if it was tainted with grime or blood or whatever it was that kid undoubtedly had lathered across his face because he certainly wasn’t permitted to shower, and then the bottle was back on his lips.

He swallowed slowly, obediently, not wanting to waste a single drop, his Adam’s apple pulsating rhythmically in his throat with every gulp that rocketed down his windpipe into his dried-up stomach. Every cell seemed to be regenerating, every crack was healing and he was almost whole again.

Almost.

“Time’s up!”

Something clattered against the floor, making a sliding noise before Yoongi felt it collide with his foot but he was too horrified by the harsh, masculine voice to bother about it.

Jungkook had said they had a few minutes. That couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. He needed more time. To drink. To breathe. To not have that goddamn monstrosity constricting his every word. It was horrible. He hated it. He needed more time.

The water bottle was taken away and now Yoongi was crying properly. It was embarrassing, it was pathetic but he felt like the world was ending. If the tape went back on and he didn’t get another drink for however long they’d been here then he knew – he just knew – that he was going to die.

And he wasn’t ready for that just yet.

He’d thought he was. He was even looking forward to it. But now that he’d been given this tiny sliver of sustenance, the value he held for his own existence had sky rocketed. He thought he’d had hope.

He’d thought that maybe they wouldn’t kill him and he’d decided he wanted to survive, but now they were shoving him back into that hole and he was almost positive that he wouldn’t ever climb out.

There was more he had left to do in this world. He hadn’t met the person he was going to settle down forever with. He hadn’t had his first child. He hadn’t been able to teach them about basketball and music and how life will get you down but you could never let it beat you. And Jungkook was still here. He had to protect Jungkook. Somehow.

“I’m sorry,” came the whisper in his ear before the object beside his foot was scooped off the floor and the harsh, grotesque sound of duct tape being ripped from its roll cut through the air like a gunshot. “I’m so sorry, hyung.”

“No,” Yoongi whimpered, trying to shake his head but finding his neck was too stiff and too painful to accommodate such movement. “Please, Kook … Please …”

“I have to,” Jungkook mumbled, his voice thick and layered with poorly concealed emotion. “I have to, hyung, or he’s going to hurt you.”

Yoongi didn’t care. He truly didn’t care anymore. He just wanted that thing off his face, as far away as possible. Even if the rawness of his throat didn’t permit him to talk as much as he could have, he didn’t want to be silenced again. They were trying to take his life but he didn’t want them to take his voice as well. It was one of the things he valued most on this godforsaken planet.

“Please …”

Lips pressed into the spot just above his ear, wet with tears and trembling from the effort of withholding sobs, but Yoongi understood that it was Jungkook trying to comfort him. He would never have admitted to the kid that it wasn’t working.

“Please don’t fight me, hyung,” the maknae begged. “I can’t watch him hurt you so please don’t fight me.”

Yoongi felt the end of the tape coming into contact with his cheek and some survival instinct inside him awoke with a vengeance and only one goal: escape. He completely freaked out, unsure of what he was trying to do or how it was supposed to remedy the situation, but he had no control of his body anymore.

He started crying hysterically, feet kicking, heels digging into the floor as he tried to push himself away from Jungkook and that greyish strip of constriction. His breaths were coming out in great hyperventilating gasps and whichever voices were shouting around him had no meaning anymore because he did not want that thing on his face.

And then a hand fisted in his hair, pulling the strands from their beds, and his head was forced so far back that his neck was almost bent ninety degrees. He froze, terror paralysing him where he sat and suddenly he wished that he’d just let Jungkook gag him again.

He didn’t know what was coming. He didn’t know what this guy was going to do to him. Burn him. Hit him. Slit his throat. Suffocate him. It would make sense, giving how much of a fuss he was making and how much of an inconvenience he was being.

Was this hope? Hope for death? Maybe it was.

“Please, don’t!” Jungkook suddenly shouted from somewhere to his left, and now the fear was bringing him over the edge. “He’s just scared! Please, let me calm him down! You don’t have to do this!”

And then came that voice again: “You shut up and don’t move or I’ll take a hammer to his ribcage.”  

Yoongi didn’t have enough time to process who he was talking to or what that actually meant before there was water on his face. But it wasn’t good this time. It wasn’t refreshing and sustaining and incredible.

His hair was still in a vice-like grip, preventing him from lifting his head, and so the water was suffocating him. It trickled down his throat too fast for him to swallow and he choked, trying to spit it back out again to no avail and now it was up his nostrils and his nose was burning and it was in his lungs and he was drowning and Jungkook was shouting, begging, pleading, and Yoongi thought that this was going to be how he would die.

In pain. Scared. Humiliated. In front of Jungkook.

That’s not how he wanted to go. That’s not how anyone wanted to go.

It didn’t matter when the waterboarding stopped because he could no longer breathe. It didn’t matter that Jungkook was holding him as close as possible and crying and begging him to calm down. It didn’t matter when the duct tape was slapped across his mouth and wound around his head so many times that he lost count.

It didn’t matter.

Because he passed out ten seconds later.


	17. If You Do This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Zhong Chenle (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Junhui! When I first joined this fandom, you were so quiet that I barely noticed you. Now you've finally come out of your shell and I've gotten to know the cutest, shyest, most talented little bean. I love you so much, baby!

              “Chenle-hyung?”

Chenle glanced up from where he was sitting on the floor of his room, staring at the blank TV screen as though it would just burst into life the longer he looked at it, to see Jisung standing in the doorway.

On any other given day, Chenle would have been terrified at the sight of his only dongsaeng quivering all over, clinging to the doorframe for support as tears oozed invisible snail trails down his cheeks. But today was not any other given day.

The only notable thing about today was that it was the sixth one without Yuta and Donghyuck. Other than that, it was just another twenty-four hours in the limitless stretch of infinity they were all being forced to endure.

“Yeah?” he croaked, feeling just as dead as the television in front of him.

Jisung didn’t move, and now Chenle was starting to notice that something was wrong. Not just the kind of wrong there was with all of them but a different kind of wrong. A _wrong_ kind of wrong. A kind of wrong like maybe something had happened.

“Jisung?” he whispered, scrambling up off the carpet and crossing the room in two strides to take hold of his maknae by the elbows. “What’s the matter? What do you know?”

The terror was spiralling. He was spiralling. Jisung was sobbing and Chenle didn’t know why and this didn’t feel like just another typical breakdown brought on by the stress of their situation and now he was positive that this little boy in his grip had just learned something awful and he needed to know what it was and... 

“Jisung …” he started again, his voice rising an octave in his fear, but Jisung was already spewing the information he had before Chenle managed to think of what he was going to say.

“They want me to bring them the money.”

Chenle blinked at him, trying to process what had just been said as he guided his little brother over to the bed and sat him down, kneeling before him with his fingers still locked around his elbows.

“Jisung, I don’t understand.”

“They want me to bring them the money,” Jisung repeated and by now, he was starting to hyperventilate. “The people who have Hyuck-hyung and Yuta-hyung, they want me to bring them the money.”

Then Chenle understood, and he had to resist the urge to burst into tears himself.

Hadn’t these people taken enough from them? Hadn’t they already made them suffer? Now they wanted them to willingly send Jisung into their clutches? It wasn’t fair. Why them? Why not somebody else? Why not anybody else? Why did it have to be them? And why did it have to be Jisung?

“How …” Chenle coughed, rubbing his thumbs back and forth over Jisung’s arms in a pathetic attempt to soothe him. “How do you know?”

“I heard Taeyong-hyung telling Mark-hyung in the kitchen just now.”

Tears were pooling in the corner of Chenle’s eyes and he knew that, as a hyung, he should be comforting Jisung but he truly had no idea what he was supposed to do. And then he felt guilty that he was being so self-obsessed when Yuta and Donghyuck were the ones who were actually suffering.

He wasn’t worthy of the pain he felt.

“I don’t think I can do it,” Jisung suddenly blurted tearfully, bringing Chenle back to reality with a crash. “I know that I should because it’s the only way to save them but I’m so scared, hyung, and I know that it’s selfish and I know that I’m being such a coward but I don’t want to do it, hyung, please don’t make me do it because I don’t think I can and I hate myself, hyung, I really hate myself but I just can’t do it and I’m so sorry, hyung, but I can’t do it and I’m so sorry …”

His words melted into incoherent syllables the second that Chenle threw his arms around him, pulling his tear-soaked face into his chest. They just stayed like that for a while, holding each other and crying together and wondering what they’d done in their previous lives to deserve this internal agony.

“What if they take me, too?” Jisung whimpered, his question barely audible from where he was buried in Chenle’s neck. “What if they kill me? What if I do something wrong and they hurt Donghyuck-hyung or Yuta-hyung because of me?”

“I don’t know,” Chenle whispered back, finally pulling away from the embrace to absorb Jisung’s tears with the pads of his thumbs. “But I do know that you have nothing to be sorry for. You’re not being selfish and you’re not being a coward and this is not your fault.”

There was another stretch of silence before:

“Why don’t we go and talk to Taeyong-hyung?”

Jisung nodded his consent and grabbed hold of Chenle’s hand, entwining their fingers and gripping as tightly as he could before finally gathering the courage to push himself off the bed. Together, they emerged from Chenle’s temporary living quarters and made a beeline for the kitchen.

Taeyong and Mark were still there, slumped in their chairs at the table with their eyes rimmed red and purple from both exhaustion and tears. The second the door opened to reveal the youngest two on the threshold, sniffing and snivelling and clinging onto each other like toddlers after a nightmare, they sprung into brotherly action.

“Come here,” Taeyong beckoned instantly, holding out his arms so Chenle could sit himself on his hyung’s lap and curl into his chest.

The feeling of his big brother’s arms around him, being able to hear his heartbeat through his shirt, would always plant a seed of comfort in Chenle’s gut. Always. Taeyong just radiated the feeling of home. But Chenle couldn’t deny the fact that in this moment, he wanted Donghyuck.

It took almost ten minutes for the two of them to calm down enough to make coherent conversation and as soon as Jisung managed to force out the words, “I heard you”, Chenle felt Taeyong deflate beneath him.

“What’s going to happen?” the kid asked from where he was perched on Mark’s lap, his hyung’s arms wrapped around him from behind. “If I don’t do this, what’s going to happen to Yuta-hyung and Hyuck-hyung?”

Chenle couldn’t see Taeyong’s face but he noticed the way Mark seemed to stiffen, his eyes nipping sideways as though he was trying to catch his leader’s attention, and it did nothing for the fear brewing inside of him.

What did they know that he didn’t? Probably a lot of things. Being one of the maknaes meant that almost everything of importance was kept from him. He understood why. His hyungs were trying to protect him from the evils of the world, but he was not a child and he hated being treated like one.

“Jisung,” Taeyong started, resting his chin on Chenle’s shoulder and tightening his grip around his little brother’s waist. “I don’t want to send you into something that isn’t safe. Please believe me on that. It’s the last thing I would ever do.”

“But …?” Chenle prompted, glancing down at his lap so that he wouldn’t have to look at Jisung’s face when Taeyong finally revealed what it was he was hiding.

“The people who have Yuta and Hyuckie want it to be you. And if it’s not, then …” Chenle wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what was coming next, and so he was thankful with the ambiguity of the sentence that followed. “It won’t be good, Jisung. It won’t be good at all.”

So basically, they were going to hurt them. That’s what Taeyong was inferring. If Jisung didn’t do this – didn’t throw himself into the arms of these monsters – then they were going to hurt their hyungs.

“So I have to bring them the money,” Jisung whispered. “I have to, don’t I? I have to.”

“Yes.”

Chenle was stunned at the sound of his own voice and judging by the sharp hitch in Taeyong’s stomach and the silence they were engulfed in, the others were, too. He hadn’t thought he would speak. He hadn’t planned it or even realised he believed the word he had uttered but there it was and now he might as well carry on.

“They’re not going to hurt you, Jisung,” he said, ploughing on even as Taeyong hissed at him in his ear. “As long as they have the hyungs, they won’t take you. All they want is someone the police aren’t going to risk firing shots at.”

Jisung was staring at him, eyes wide and body stationary, as though he had stopped breathing, but Chenle had to keep going.

“If you do this then we get them back. They come home and we can look after them. But if you don’t do this then they’re going to die, and it’s going to be painful.”

He looked up at his best friend: a seventeen-year-old boy in the midst of the worst nightmare ever created.

“You can bring your hyungs home, Jisung. Only you. And I want them home. I want them home right now, and that doesn’t mean that I’m trading you for them. I would never … I wouldn’t do … I just wouldn’t make a choice like that. But they’ll die if you don’t do this for them.”

There was a long, long time where nobody said anything.

Chenle would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little furious at himself for how he’d just spoken to that little boy on Mark’s lap, but nobody was contradicting him. Nobody was kicking him out of the room with angry hisses and reproachful glares, and Jisung wasn’t crying anymore.

“Chenle, move,” Taeyong whispered, gently shifting the smaller boy off his lap so that he could kneel down on the kitchen floor and take both Jisung’s hands in his own.

The second youngest stood to the side, swatting at the crystallised tear tracks on his cheeks as he watched the exchange between the leader and the baby of their group, and he wished for probably the first time in his life that he’d never attended that audition all those years ago.

“The police will protect you,” Taeyong was saying to Jisung, eyes round with sincerity and still swimming slightly. “I’ve spoken to the leading detective on this case and he said that if you decide to do this – because it is your decision, Jisung, no one will force you – there will be officers everywhere. They’ll be watching and you’ll be in a public place anyway so it’s unlikely these guys will try anything to hurt you or take you. The police will brief you on what to do and what to say and they’ve said that, statistically speaking, if we pay the ransom, they’ll release the hostages.”

It sounded safe, Chenle thought, as he observed the emotional scene before him from the side lines. It sounded like it was going to be okay, but this was still Jisung. This was a human being they were offering up like a sacrifice in the desperate hope that it wouldn’t backfire on them.

And Chenle wanted Yuta and Donghyuck home. Badly. So, so badly. He would sell his own soul, slice off his own hand, leap in front of a moving train if it meant he could wrap his arms around them at this exact moment. It was why he’d just given that pathetic little speech in the first place.

But at the end of the day, they had a choice to make: Jisung or Hyuck and Yuta.

“When’s the drop scheduled for?” Jisung asked, his voice shaking almost as badly as the hands that were still encased in Taeyong’s grip.

“May 3rd, 3pm.”

“The police will be there?”

“They’ll be wearing civilian clothes so you won’t know it’s them but neither will the kidnappers and that’s what they’re aiming for.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

Taeyong’s breath hitched in his throat and Chenle could tell the leader hadn’t been expecting that question. It was typical Jisung though: always asking after others, wanting to satisfy every last member of their group even if it meant he would have to make his own sacrifice.

It was cruel to think that this time, the sacrifice might be his life.

“I …” Taeyong began, catching Mark’s eye for a split second before clearing his throat of the frog lodged halfway down it.

“Tell the truth,” Jisung interrupted. “What do you want me to do?”

Chenle had never seen Taeyong look so conflicted, and he couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have that kind of pressure suddenly thrust on top of you. But then:

“I want Yuta and Donghyuck to come home.”

Jisung inhaled, deep and long, a few stray tears leaking from between his swollen eyelids.

“Then I’ll do it.”  


	18. Going Home Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Nakamoto Yuta (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Taeil!!! One of the most gorgeous voices in the industry, I wish you could have an entire solo album dedicated to your outstanding vocals! I hope that each one of your twenty younger brothers has told you what a great hyung you are at least once today. I love you so much, my little moonchild.

             Yuta wondered if his brain was bleeding.

He’d had an ear-splitting headache since he’d woken up in the darkness, his hair crisp and matted with dried blood from where they’d repeatedly rammed him into the wall. He felt nauseous, constantly swallowing down his own bile, and he wondered if the dizziness was due to the concussion or the malnutrition.

There wasn’t much to do. It was almost boring. So he just sat, resting his head on Donghyuck’s shoulder as the kid perched on his lap, humming some tune he couldn’t recognise, and he wondered how long it would take to die from a brain bleed. He wondered if it could just speed up a little.

Donghyuck had been allowed to give him some more water and he’d gulped it down like a fish, retching and almost choking in his desperation, and his throat was almost moist enough for his tongue not to stick to the roof of his mouth.

All he wanted to do was sleep, but his body wouldn’t let him. Maybe it was afraid of surrendering to oblivion just in case it never returned, but his mind was begging for release. For just a few moments of peace and quiet. Just a few moments … just a few … Or maybe a little more than that.

The familiar splintering crash of the door bouncing off the wall cut through the silence and Donghyuck gave a squeak of surprise, his grip around his hyung’s neck tightening as Yuta’s entire body jolted with fright.

He’d almost managed to fall asleep.

There were footsteps. Heavy. Booted. And there were lots of them. It wasn’t just one person like it usually was and there was no rustle of a plastic bag filled with food or crinkle of a water bottle slapping against the ground.

Something was happening. Something was finally happening, and Yuta didn’t know whether he was relieved or absolutely terrified.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“What are you doing?” came Sehun’s voice, trying to sound steady but quivering nonetheless. “What’s going on?”

There was no reply. Just more footsteps. Getting louder. And nearer. He could feel Donghyuck holding him tighter, protectively, almost desperately, and he wanted to hold him back but he wasn’t sure he could move his hands even if they weren’t bound behind the chair.

“Please …” his maknae whimpered, and now Yuta was petrified. “Please, leave us alone. Please, I –”

Donghyuck’s sentence was severed, words morphing into a yelp and then his body was gone from Yuta’s lap. The hyung panicked. He started struggling against his restraints, yelling through the duct tape in the hope that he could produce something more than muffled moans.

Where was Donghyuck? What were they doing to him? Were they taking him? Where? He had to know. He had to see. He had to ask. He had to move. But they had taken the ability to do all those things from him, and he could do nothing to get them back.

Hands clamped down on his shoulders without warning, thick fingers digging into the skin and nails burying deep enough to draw blood, and he was ripped from the chair so violently that he heard it topple over behind him.

He staggered, weakened knees unable to withstand his weight after days and days of immobilisation, and he felt himself plummeting with the helpless knowledge that he couldn’t throw out his arms to break his fall. But instead of the cold concrete floor, he hit a human torso and almost bounced off their solidified muscles.

It hurt. Everything hurt. He didn’t know where he was or why they were moving him like this and he couldn’t see a single thing that was going on around him or reach out to make sense of shapes and obstacles.

He could only hope they weren’t expecting him to walk because he certainly wouldn’t be able to. He was too weak. Too tired. Too scared. Confused. In pain. Disorientated.

And then the body in front of him was gone and he was toppling forwards, his hips meeting something broad as a pair of tree-branch arms wrapped around his thighs.

There was a grunt from somewhere above him and the world shifted, his feet leaving the floor and that broad something cutting into his lower abdomen with the pressure that came with being hoisted into the air like a sack of potatoes.

He was upside down. Upside down and moving. Someone was carrying him over their shoulder, and it hurt. He wanted to hold on, to stop himself from falling face first into the ground, but he couldn’t. He wanted to kick his legs and feel his bare toes digging into the stomach of his abductor but they were holding his knees too tightly.

People were shouting. He recognised Sehun. But no one else.

The blood was rushing to his head, burning his temples. He could hear his own pulse in his ears. This brute’s shoulder was painfully hard against his flattened abdomen. He was going to vomit. He was going to faint. His body was swinging slightly as they took the stairs.

He had no idea where he was. He didn’t like it. He wanted to pass out. He wanted this to be over. He wanted them to put him down. He wanted to go home. He wanted Donghyuck by his side right now. He wanted to go home.

He wanted to go home.

If his brain wasn’t bleeding before then it definitely was now. Everything must have been bleeding. His eyes, his ears, his nose. He was going to suffocate. He was going to die.

He wanted to go home.

There was cold air against his skin. He could hear gravel crunching underneath him. Somewhere ahead, Donghyuck was crying. And all he could think was at least he would be with Donghyuck. Wherever they were taking him, he was going to be with Donghyuck. And if they were going to die then at least they would die together.

“Jesus Christ, stop squirming,” came the raw growl from above.

Yuta hadn’t realised he’d been moving at all, let alone struggling.

“Please! Put him down gently! He’s hurt already! I’m begging you, please put him down gently!”

He only just managed to register Donghyuck’s voice before a hand fisted in his shirt and he was practically flung from his captor’s shoulder. The base of his spine met cold metal and he let out a constricted cry of agony, pain ricocheting up his back like an electric shock, but somebody caught his head before it could meet a similar fate.

Doors slammed. A voice warned them not to try anything. Yuta cried from behind the duct tape. The person holding his head shifted it into his lap. Fingers combed through his hair. He cried harder.

His bound hands were trapped underneath him, the pull in his scapular muscles ensuring that he lost sensation in his arms almost immediately. His back was a column of unbearable pain. His eyes were stinging with his own tears, unable to fall from behind the tape. He couldn’t breathe properly.

He cried.

“I’ve got you, hyung.”

Even Donghyuck’s gentle soothing couldn’t rid him of this agony. Nothing could. It was too much. Overwhelming. Asphyxiating. He cried even harder.

“I’m right here.”

Where was here? It was cold. The floor was hard. There was the growl of an engine. They were moving, being jostled and jiggled as the sound of the wheels grated against gravel. A van. Back in the van. Going somewhere. Where? He didn’t know. He just cried.

“I’m not going to let them touch you.”

How could Donghyuck make such a promise when he himself sounded borderline hysterical. Yuta’s baby was sobbing. His baby was scared. _His_ baby was the one comforting _him._ He had to do something. He had to find some way to tell his baby that it was okay. But he couldn’t.

So he cried.

“Shut him up will you?”

That definitely wasn’t Donghyuck. It was the raw growly voice from before. The voice of the man who had swung him over his shoulder and forced him to endure the nauseating journey from that awful basement to this equally awful van. Yuta didn’t like that voice. He kept crying.

“He’s in pain!” Donghyuck cried, fear and protectiveness accumulating in one short sentence. “You hurt him!”

A foot stomped down on Yuta’s ankle. Something cracked. Yuta screamed even louder. Yuta cried even harder. Yuta wanted to go home. He wanted to go home almost as badly as he wanted to die.

“Okay, I’m sorry!”

Why was Donghyuck apologising? Was Donghyuck the one who had kicked him? Why was Donghyuck kicking him? Donghyuck shouldn’t be kicking him. Donghyuck was a good kid. Good kids didn’t kick their hyungs.

“Shh. It’s okay, hyung. It’s alright. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere but please stop crying. Please stop. It’s okay.”

Was he really making that much noise? He hadn’t realised. He could barely hear his own voice. Just the sound of blood in his ears and the ever-increasing drumbeat foreshadowing his slow and agonising death.

“I love you, hyung. I love you so much. Please stop crying. You’re safe with me. I’m going to keep you safe.”

Yuta stopped crying. But not because he was told to.

Yuta stopped crying because the shadows were creeping in. He stopped crying because he didn’t have the energy to cry anymore. He stopped crying because he didn’t need to now. He stopped crying because the grim reaper was coming, holding out its arms.

He was going home.

“It’s okay, hyung. I’m right here. I’m going to do everything they say. I promise. I’m going to protect you. I swear, hyung. I’m going to protect you like you’ve always protected me. I’m not going to let them hurt you again.”

Voices. More voices. Too many voices.

Were they still moving? He couldn’t hear the engine. There was no more jostling.

The van had stopped. It was cold. Donghyuck’s hands in his hair were warm.

Voices. More voices. So many voices. All the time.

… “You’re going to do exactly what we tell you to” …

… “You will follow every order down to the letter” …

… “He stays here with us” …

… “You so much as breathe without permission and this knife – see this one here? – it goes in his eye” …

… “Do not take off your mask” …

… “Do not say anything other than what we tell you to say” …

… “We’re going to be listening” …

… “We’re going to be watching” …

… “We’re going to know the second that you try something” …

… “You want to know what will happen then?” …

Something sharp.

Something sharp slicing through the skin of his cheek.

Pain. White hot pain.

Too weak to scream.

Too weak for anything.

… “Nod if you understand” …

Something was happening.

Yuta could tell something was happening.

Yuta didn’t care.

Yuta was going home now.


	19. Might Die Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Park Jisung (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Soonyoung!!! Honestly, the fact that you spoiled your own surprise party because you were running through every room just to make sure everyone knew it was your birthday and you accidentally found the cake is just the most "you" thing on this planet. I love you, my little tiger, and I hope you smile forevermore!!

            “I’m just going to tighten these straps,” Taeyong said for probably the fifth time, his fingers shaking as he ripped the Velcro from Jisung’s torso and pulled it taught before reapplying it just beneath his maknae’s left arm.

“Hyung,” Jisung whispered, unable to take his eyes off the floor for fear that his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. “Calm down.”

“What?”

“Calm down.”

“Oh,” Taeyong inhaled, seeming to finally realise just how jittery he was being. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jisung just nodded. He understood Taeyong’s anxiety all too well. He felt it.

He was standing in the middle of a relatives’ room in the police station with a bulletproof vest tightly gripping his chest and feeling like it was suddenly going to crush his ribcage. He would be mad not to have been scared.

Bulletproof vests meant guns. Guns meant death. Or major injury. Either way, guns meant pain.

And his group couldn’t possibly handle any more pain. It was the only reason he had agreed to do this: to bring an end to the agony they were all engulfed in.

The door opened and he jumped, senses on the highest alert in preparation for what he was about to do, but it was Detective Park who stepped into the room with his mouth stretched into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Looking good, kiddo,” he chuckled, gesturing to Jisung’s new getup, and the teenager’s lips twitched in what he hoped looked like an appreciation of the deadened humour, but the attempted joke only seemed to upset Taeyong further.

“I don’t like this,” he was saying, wringing his hands from where he was trembling by the wall. “I don’t like this at all. It’s not safe. Detective, it can’t be safe.”

“Hyung!” Jisung shouted, cutting his leader off mid-sentence.

He hadn’t meant to yell, but Taeyong’s terror was threatening to infect him and he was already failing in his task to stay as calm as possible. He glared at his hyung with tears pooling in his eyes, and watched as Taeyong brought a hand to his mouth in a desperate attempt to suppress his own waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered yet again as he stumbled forwards and pulled Jisung into a hug, resting his chin on top of the kid’s head and stroking a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Detective Park was watching them with an expression caught between endearment and heartbreak. Jisung could only imagine how pathetic the two of them looked, bodies entwined, hands fisted in each other’s clothes and both sets of eyes shimmering with fearful pearls.

“Jisung-ssi,” the man started, his words gently coaxing Taeyong into releasing his death grip. “We need to discuss what’s going to happen. Are you ready?”

Jisung glanced up at Taeyong who still had an arm clamped around his shoulders, and their eyes met. “Yeah.”

They sat on the scratchy grey sofas, probably placed there in an attempt to provide comfort to those in their position, but all it did was make the backs of Jisung’s thighs itch and prickle with the irritating spike of the woollen cushions. He didn’t need to admit he was secretly grateful that Taeyong hadn’t retraced the arm from around his shoulders.

“Now,” Park started, leaning forwards in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees as though he were trying to make himself look a little more casual and not like he was about to escort a child into a warzone. “I know this is a terrifying situation for all of you, but if everything goes according to plan today, this nightmare you’re experiencing will be over.”

Jisung nodded shakily, reaching out to grasp Taeyong’s thigh and stop his hyung’s leg from bouncing against the floor. He wanted this over. He wanted his hyungs back. And in just a few hours, he could be holding them in his arms.

“These people,” Park continued. “They have the control here, so whatever they tell you to do, Jisung, you have to do it, but …”

“And if they tell him to get into a car?” Taeyong interrupted, voice cracking under the pressure of his constricted throat, but Park remained patient and calm and it was just what they needed from him at that moment.

“If such a request is made, the police officers we have on the scene will step in immediately. Is that understood, Jisung-ssi? Our top priority here is your safety, but you have to play your part as well. Do not anger them, do not ask questions, do not speak unless you are spoken to and you won’t give them any reason to hurt Yuta-ssi, Donghyuck-ssi or any of the others.”

Jisung wanted to be sick. His stomach was rolling and if it weren’t for Taeyong’s fingers wrapped around his hand, he probably would have lunged for the trash can across the room.

He had never been more scared in his life.

“We cannot give you a wire.” Park ploughed on. “It would only reveal that the police are listening, and that was one of the terms in the ransom demand, so we won’t be able to hear what is being said. But we have a dozen police officers in unmarked vehicles, wearing civilian clothes, that will be watching every movement. They are armed and exceptionally skilled in marksmanship. If a situation arises where they have to shoot, they will not miss.”

Jisung wanted so desperately to believe his promises, but he couldn’t shake the thought that if those officers really were that good, he wouldn’t be encased in Kevlar at that very moment.

And if they were wearing ordinary clothes, he wouldn’t know where they were. They might as well send him in there alone, because that was what it felt like.

He was snapped from his reverie by the plain black duffel bag that was suddenly dropped in front of him.

“This,” Park said, unzipping the cargo to reveal wad upon wad upon wad of bank notes compiled by the owners of their companies. “Is what you’ll be carrying with you. There are no tracking devices or anything else inside so if they ask you to search it for them, you won’t find anything. They may tell you to count the money in front of them and if so, make sure you flick through the stacks so they see every note is real.”

He demonstrated the action and Jisung nodded again, his gut still twisting uncomfortably inside his body and his temples aching with the effort of processing so much vital information. One slip up could mean the death of his hyungs.

“We don’t know how they are planning to do this. There is a possibility that they have a hostage with them as leverage, and if that is the case then try to look over them, Jisung-ssi. Try to see if they are trying to pass you any secret messages or if not, just check that they’re not injured. But do not speak to them. It will probably make the abductors angry. Do you understand everything I’ve said to you?”

Jisung hadn’t realised he was crying until the detective pushed out of his chair and knelt in front of him, taking his hands, as Taeyong pressed his forehead into his little brother’s shoulder in a display of love and desperate affection.

“You’ve been so brave, Jisung-ssi,” Park told him, and Jisung forced his head to bob up and down in acknowledgement. “But your hyungs need you to be brave for just a little longer, okay? And then all of this will be over and all of you will be together again.”

Just a little longer. Just a little longer.

Jisung repeated those words in his head as Park straightened back up and Taeyong pulled him to his feet so they could embrace once more.

He wanted to stop crying, to put up a barrier and push his emotions down, but the way Taeyong was holding him – one hand around his back and the other cupping his head – didn’t feel like a _see you soon_ kind of hug.

It felt more like a _goodbye forever_. As though some part of Taeyong didn’t believe they were ever going to see each other again.

“I love you, baby,” the leader whispered and Jisung felt his breath hitch in his throat.

Taeyong only ever called him that when they were joking around. This certainly wasn’t a joke.

“I love you so much. I’m so proud of you. So, so proud. You stay safe now. You stay safe and hyung’s going to be right here when you get back, okay? Hyung’s going to be waiting right here until you come back. Hyung’s going to be here. I promise, baby. Hyung’s going to be right here.”

Jisung nodded against Taeyong’s chest, tightening his grip around the taller boy’s middle as he felt kisses being pressed against his scalp. On any other day, he would have cringed away from the affection with hysterical yelps of disgust but now he would have given anything to ensure that his hyung never let him go again.

“I love you too, hyung.”

It was all he had to give. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He didn’t want to make Taeyong cry even harder and he certainly didn’t want to make him believe that his suspicions were true: that his baby might not be coming back.

“Jisung-ssi. Taeyong-ssi?” came the gentle prompt from beside them. “It’s almost 1:45. We need to be at the park by 3, and we can’t afford to be late. It’s time to go.”

The two of them pulled away from each other obediently, Taeyong taking Jisung’s face in his hands and kissing him on the forehead with a final whisper of “I love you” before he let go and was forced to watch as his maknae left the room.

Jisung heard his leader’s voice one more time, hardened and rough and desperate all at once as he addressed the man who now held his little brother’s life in his hands.

“You bring him home to me, okay?”

Jisung walked away before he could hear Park’s response.

The ride to Songdo Central Park was barely an hour, and Jisung tried counting house numbers they passed as some kind of distraction even though he knew he should be listening to the instructions the detective was giving him. All he could think was that he might very well die today.

The Kevlar was tight – too tight – but he didn’t dare loosen it after Taeyong had spent so much time fastening and re-fastening the straps to make sure it covered as much of his body as possible. The neckline was digging into the underside of his chin, uncomfortable and almost painful.

He told himself repeatedly that it was all for Donghyuck and Yuta.

When the car stopped, he whipped around in his seat to look at Park, his eyes wide and terrified as his head shook backwards and forwards with violent, involuntary movements. He needed more time.

He wasn’t ready to die yet.

But then Park’s hand was on his knee, thumb stroking back and forth in a gesture of comfort, and Jisung found himself reaching for the jacket in his lap even when every instinct within was screaming at him to run and hide in a dark cupboard.

He slipped his arms into the extra layer, zipping it right up to his chin to hide the Kevlar, and then fastened the mask over his nose and mouth, feeling his own hot breath bouncing back at him every time he exhaled.

“Alright?” Park asked him as he took a baseball cap and stuck it firmly over the kid’s dishevelled hair.

Jisung shook his head, eyes welling up again, but he could see the way Park was checking his watch. He could see the big hand already biting off the 1 in the number “12”. He knew that being late could cost his hyungs their lives, so he bit his lip and changed his shake to a nod.

“We’ve got you, Jisung.”

He could only hope Park was telling the truth.

It was May but the wind had spiralled into icy temperatures that nipped mercilessly at his skin the moment he emerged from the black BMW and he pulled his jacket closer around him, his fingers tracing the Kevlar through the fabric just to remind himself that it was still there.

He started walking on legs made of wet spaghetti, hands trembling so violently that they almost dropped the duffel bag, but he didn’t once look back at the car because he knew it wasn’t there anymore.

Park had needed to leave immediately after dropping him off just in case these people were watching from the shadows. And even though he knew there were undercover agents peppering the benches and pathways and fields, he couldn’t help feeling incredibly alone.

And most of all, vulnerable.

There was a squeal from a stretch of grass to his right and he turned his head as he walked, watching a man scooping up a little girl and spinning her round and round and round as she giggled in that high pitch register of hers.

Jisung wanted to tell them to go. He wanted to tell that man to take his daughter and run. He wanted to tell him to hold her against his chest for the rest of her life because he never knew what would be lurking in the darkness. He never knew what might want to snatch her away.

But he kept walking, and now he could see the bridge. The place where it was all going to happen. The place where he might die.

It was a gigantic structure: fifty feet long with a huge white semi-circle curving above it and suspension ropes stretching in all directions to keep it aloft. Water ran beneath it, gently and passively, with no current to push it onwards.

It just did what it wanted. It was free. It was beautiful.

And Jisung might die here.

He stumbled to the very centre and set the duffel bag on the ground at his feet, leaning against the railing and watching the people pass by, wondering which one was suddenly going to loom over him and taunt him with the knowledge that they had his hyungs.

Time was an illusion. It was passing so quickly, and Jisung was starting to question whether the tightness in his chest was because of the Kevlar or because he was on the verge of a panic attack.

Why were they taking so long? It was almost 3:10 and there was no sign of anyone coming to take the money in exchange for his brothers. Park had warned him that they might deliberately show up late, as some display of intimidation and power, but it didn’t stop the thoughts from whirring around his brain and picking at his nervous system.

What if they weren’t coming? What would happen then? Would they kill the hostages? Had they already killed the hostages? Is that why they weren’t here? Because their leverage was already gone and they had chosen to make a run for it?

It was all too much. Too much. He wanted to go back. He wanted Park. He wanted Taeyong. He wanted …

“You brought the money?”

His head snapped to the side so quickly that he felt something crack between his vertebrae and he had to clamp his lips shut before he cried out with fright. His heart was in his mouth, his stomach in his feet and all he could do was stare at the person standing beside him with their face covered by a mask just like his.

But he could see their eyes. And he knew those eyes.

He would know those eyes anywhere.

“Hyung?”  


	20. Their Only Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Donghyuck (Haechan of NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I was gone for so long!
> 
> But happy birthday, Taeyong! Nobody works harder in this industry than you do. I have no idea how you manage it but I hope you know that you are precious and wonderful and talented and worth the world. I hope someone told you that today! I love you so much, baby!
> 
> And, Kyungsoo, I thought I'd have at least another year before I had to say this but good luck, baby. Take care of yourself, eat plenty, stay healthy and happy and come back to us in 21 months. I'll miss you!

             The moment Donghyuck set eyes on him from the other end of the bridge, he had to resist the urge to burst into tears.

That was his baby. His Jisung. The little boy he hadn’t laid eyes on or spoken to in seven days was a mere twenty feet away, waiting just for him. It was almost too much to bear, because Donghyuck knew what was going to happen.

And Donghyuck was absolutely powerless to stop it.

 _“Can you see him?”_ came the hiss in his ear and he nodded dramatically, making sure Tattoo could see his movement from wherever he was hiding, clutching at the earpiece that was transferring his every word into Donghyuck’s auditory system. _“Walk up to him and ask him if he brought the money. No physical contact, no secret messages. Remember what’s on the line here, Hyuckie.”_

He flinched at the nickname. Only his friends were allowed to call him that. And this man – the one who held his big brother’s life in his bloody hands – was most definitely not his friend.

_“Move.”_

But in this moment, he had every ounce of control.

_“Now.”_

Donghyuck jerked into motion, forcing his trembling legs to carry him forwards onto the wooden slates laid side to side as they formed the bridge that would determine whether or not he and his friends lived or died.

Jisung was looking around him, masked face turning from side to side and fingers fidgeting with his jacket in the classic nervous tick he’d developed all the way back when he was twelve. When Donghyuck had first met him. When he was still just a child.

And the bag was on the floor at his feet, bulging at the sides as the cheap material strained against the weight of all the money that lay stacked inside. All he had to do was pick it up, get it to Tattoo and he would be reunited with Yuta again. All he had to do … All he had … All he …

“You brought the money?”

He surprised himself with the roughness to his own voice, fear and desperation clogging up his throat. And if he was honest, his lungs were probably shocked to be breathing fresh air for the first time in a week. But either way, he sounded different. Harsh. Cruel. Foreign.

But Jisung recognised him anyway.

“Hyung?”

Donghyuck saw the second the kid’s eyes inflated like balloons from above his mask and below the rim of his baseball cap, and he was once again fighting his own tears. The only thing that kept him from bursting into hysterics and clinging onto his baby for dear life were the words in his ear.

_“Ask again.”_

“Have you brought the money?”

“D … Donghyuck-hyung?” Jisung stuttered, ignoring the question as he stumbled forwards and threw his arms around his best friend’s neck.

Fingers fisted in Donghyuck’s shirt, nails digging into his back and tears were suddenly speckling the skin of his neck as his name was repeated back to him like a broken record.

“Hyung … Hyung … Hyung …”

_“Push him away, Donghyuck!”_

Donghyuck blinked through the watery haze over his eyes, brought up his hands and braced them against Jisung’s chest, pushing the teenager backwards so forcefully that he staggered and had to throw out an arm to steady his balance on the bridge’s railing.

“Hyung?”

_“Where’s the money, Donghyuck?”_

“Ha – Have you brought the money?” Donghyuck choked for the third time, his breath catching on the way up his trachea and distorting his words into trembling syllables.

He lowered his gaze to the bag on the ground, unable to look at the betrayal and the confusion in Jisung’s eyes with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to explain himself. No way to tell the boy in front of him that he had to be cruel and hostile because it was the only way to keep Yuta alive.

“Are you okay, hyung? Are you hurt? What about Yuta-hyung? And all the others? Where are they keeping you, hyung? Who are they? Can you tell me what they look like?”

Jisung wasn’t listening. Why wasn’t Jisung listening? He was too wrapped up in his own emotions to see that Donghyuck couldn’t answer his questions. Donghyuck couldn’t do anything besides what he was told to, because somewhere in this park was a van and in the back of that van was a man getting ready to slice through Yuta’s flesh with a knife if this didn’t go as planned.

“Is the money in the bag?” Donghyuck spat, specks of phlegm painting the inside of his mask as he pointed at the duffel bag on the ground. “Is all of it there?”

“Yes,” Jisung nodded at last, grabbing the cargo and holding it out to Donghyuck with arms that trembled so violently it looked as though he were going to drop it at any second. “It’s all here, hyung. There are no trackers or anything. It’s all here.”

_“Take the bag, put it on the ground and open it up.”_

Donghyuck obeyed, snatching the bounty from Jisung’s arms and dropping to his knees, quivering fingers battling with the zip before finally managing to get it unstuck from the polyester and slide it home.

_“Check the money. Flick through the wads. Make sure it’s real.”_

It was real. It was definitely, definitely real. Donghyuck had never held so much cash in his hands. The thought of Jisung carrying that through the park, unaware of who he was giving it to or who might suddenly jump out of the bushes to tackle him, chilled him to the bone.

_“If it’s real, close the bag and stand up.”_

Donghyuck straightened his legs, bringing the duffel over his shoulder in one swift movement, still avoiding Jisung’s stare.

_“Tell him that if he follows you, his hyung will die.”_

“Hyung …” Jisung whispered, hands reaching out in desperation to find purchase on Donghyuck’s jacket. To hold onto him. To not let him go. “Please tell me something. Tell me something that will help us find you.”

“If …” Donghyuck’s throat closed up. “If you follow … If you follow us … y … your hyungs will … will … die.”

Jisung’s face crumpled with fear, tears waterfalling down his face and seeping into his mask, and Donghyuck tried to speak with his eyes. He tried to tell Jisung that he wasn’t doing this of his own volition. That he was doing this to protect Yuta. But he didn’t know how.

_“Now turn … Shit, that’s a cop! Donghyuck start fucking running right now! RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!”_

Donghyuck had never felt more fear in his entire existence. He didn’t know what was happening or what Tattoo had seen that would make him believe there was a police officer here, but he just knew that he had to run. For Yuta.

“Donghyuck!”

Jisung’s scream reverberated through his head as he turned on his heel and started sprinting, the bag bouncing against his back as he ran and the money sloshing around inside. It was heavy. Really heavy. The only reason it didn’t send him crashing to the floor was the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

And Tattoo was still yelling.

_“At the end of the path! Beside the bandstand! Hurry the fuck up, Donghyuck!”_

Bandstand. Bandstand. There was no fucking bandstand!

People were running towards him in his peripheral vision. Random people. People in ordinary clothing. People who were holding things. Small black things they clutched in both hands. Small black things Donghyuck recognised as the carriers of bullets.

He spun on the spot, panic flaring inside his chest and mind racing at a trillion miles an hour. Would they really shoot him? Would they really fire their weapons without warning or question?

It was there! The bandstand! Pastel blue and pretty-looking with flowers adorning its support beams and a young woman sitting on its wooden steps, her nose buried in a book. It was right there! Tattoo was right there! Yuta was right there!

That day, Donghyuck learnt what it felt like to be shot.

He started running and there was an earth-shattering _BANG_ and he kept running because now his life depended on it. But even the fastest man alive couldn’t have outrun a bullet cutting through the air as it rocketed towards its intended target.

It ripped through the flesh of his upper arm without mercy or clemency. It obliterated his cells, slicing into skin and spewing blood all over his hoodie, and he screamed. He screamed so loud that he thought his vocal cords had been torn to shreds and the bag slipped from his hands, but the one thing he did not do was stop running.

The one thing he did not do was leave Yuta to those people.

The van was parked exactly where it should have been. Black, no number plate, tinted windows hiding what was concealed inside, and the second gunshot whizzed right past Donghyuck’s ear just as the vehicle’s rear doors were thrown open and two gigantic arms reached out to heave him inside.

Tyres screeched against tarmac, bullets peppered the reinforced metal walls, Tattoo swore at the top of his lungs, and Donghyuck curled up on the floor. He clutched at his arm, fingers drenched in blood, tears cascading down his face as he pleaded with whatever God was still out there to bring an end to the searing pain that seemed to be spreading throughout his body.

His mind was telling him to get up, to find Yuta and hold him close and protect him from the noise and the pain and the darkness that was creeping in, but he couldn’t move. It just hurt. It hurt so badly that he could barely breathe.

He wanted to pass out. But the world wasn’t done with its torture.

Hands clawed at his jacket and he was wrenched into a sitting position, head snapping backwards and forwards as Tattoo shook him with all his might. The kidnapper’s mask was barely an inch from his face and even through the blurriness closing in around him, he could see the anger.

But he wouldn’t have needed to see it to know it was there. He felt it. He heard it. And in the end, Yuta paid for it.

“WHERE’S THE FUCKING MONEY, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT? WHERE’S THE GODDAMN MONEY?”

Donghyuck knew he’d screwed up. He knew he should have brought them that duffel bag even if it killed him. But he hadn’t, and now they were moving, and it was too late. They had missed their chance.

They may have missed their only chance.

“Dropped it …” he wheezed out, eyes rolling about in his head as he tried to make sense of the world going on around him.

Everything was moving too fast. There was sweat on his forehead and blood on his hands and he wasn’t even sure if his arm was still attached to him anymore. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t move it. It could have been blown off his body for all he knew.

“YOU DROPPED IT? YOU DROPPED IT! YOU FUCKING MORON!”

More swearing. More shouting. More noises.

Hyperventilating. Cursing. Orders. Ringing. Crashes. Bangs.

Donghyuck’s captor released him and he keeled over onto the floor, still clutching at his injured limb. His eyes were unable to focus, glassy, glazed, useless, and yet still he found Yuta. His hyung was lying on his side against the van’s wall, unmoving, lifeless.

Donghyuck should have reached for him. Should have called his name.

But Donghyuck just closed his eyes.  


	21. The Real Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Minhyuk (MONSTA X)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who aren't familiar with Monsta X, I used Minhyuk as the centre of this chapter because his birth name is the same as his stage name. But Changkyun and Hyunwoo are involved as well so I thought I'd just note that Changkyun is I.M. (the maknae) and Hyunwoo is Shownu (the leader)

             “You’d think they’d at least make decent coffee here.”

Minhyuk nodded absently, watching as Jackson jabbed his thumb against the buttons and a spastic trickle of milk spurted into the murky brown liquid.

The stuff was disgusting and they knew it, but it was the least they could do for the people in the room they’d just left, currently going through the most terrifying experience of their lives.

From the moment Jooheon had put down the phone, turned to the six of them sitting on the living room sofa and told them they were needed – desperately – Minhyuk’s spirit had left his body. He was just a ghost floating around, trying to distance himself from the horrific reality of their situation as much as possible.

“Okay, I’m done,” Jackson sighed, lodging the fourth steaming cup into the holder and scooping the scratchy paper into his hands. “Let’s go back.”

“Can you imagine?” Minhyuk suddenly blurted, unsure of where the words had come from but unable to stop them flowing now that the initial dam had broken. “Can you imagine what they’re going through right now?”

Jackson was staring at him, eyes glazed with sadness, and Minhyuk could tell they were both thinking exactly the same thing.

There was no way either of them could understand what Namjoon, Junmyeon, Taeyong and Joshua were thinking and feeling as they sat, lifeless and blank, in the relatives’ room, just waiting for someone to come and give them the news that would either alleviate all of their pain or rip their world to shreds.

“If it was Changkyun …” Minhyuk couldn’t even finish the sentence without his throat drying out and his breath hitching painfully. “I’d die, Jackson. I’d actually die.”

And it was the truth. If he was the one sitting on those itchy couches, knowing full well that his maknae was dwelling in some basement, terrified, maybe hurt, possibly even dying or already dead, he would have a heart attack on the spot.

“But it’s not Changkyun,” Jackson stated firmly, breaking Minhyuk from his internal nightmare and reaching out his free hand to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. “And that’s what makes us different from those guys in there. We’re safe. Our members are safe. So we’re not allowed to feel anything, okay? We’re here for support and that is all. Have you got that?”

“Yes,” Minhyuk whispered, before clearing his throat of the frog lounging inside it, and repeating the word a little louder. “Yes.”

Jackson was right. Of course, he was right. Minhyuk was here because Soonyoung had called Jooheon in a fit of tears, begging for help and comfort, and the entirety of Monsta X had dropped everything to give them just that.

He had no time to wallow in his own fears and feelings. He was here for Seventeen.

“I understand.”

The two of them took their packed coffee-cup holders and walked back to the relatives’ room in silence, which is exactly what they were faced with when Jackson shouldered open the door.

Everybody was just as they’d left them.

Namjoon was leaning forwards in his seat, head in his hands and fingers fisted in his unwashed hair as he tried to pull the stress from his own scalp. Junmyeon was pacing, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, as though he no longer had to think about putting one foot in front of the other.

Taeyong was on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest and face buried in his folded arms so he could hide from the rest of the world. And Joshua was just there. Just sitting on the couch with his figure slumped and his eyes staring blankly into the abyss.

Minhyuk gave out the coffee cups and then seated himself beside his friend, snaking an arm around his shoulders. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know what he would say. So he just let Joshua know that he wasn’t alone. That not once in this night terror would he be alone.

Only God would have known how long the six of them sat there but when the door finally opened after what felt like an eternity of waiting, every single person in that room seemed to hold their breath.

“Jisung …” Taeyong croaked, finally raising his head to reveal swollen cheeks and puffy red eyes that seemed to bore right into Detective Park’s soul.

“Jisung is fine, Taeyong,” the man reassured, but Minhyuk had always been an expert judge of character and he could read this guy like a book.

Something had happened. Something had gone wrong, and right now, Park was trying to figure out how he was supposed to tell this group of truly petrified people – most of them still trying to fumble their way around understanding adult life – exactly what had happened in those few excruciating hours.

“It worked, right?” Namjoon whispered, and Minhyuk saw the way he was clinging to Jackson’s thigh as though the world would dissipate if he loosened his grip even a little. “You got them back, didn’t you? Tell us you got them back.”

Park sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor for a split second while he composed himself, before his hands folded themselves neatly in front of him and he looked back up with a kind of steely dissociation in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he reported, robotically, soullessly. “But the drop was not a success. It appears there were some factors we couldn’t have predicted that determined the outcome of the operation.”

“Speak English!” Junmyeon spat, spite lacing the tip of his tongue. “What happened out there?”

“Where’s Jisung?” Taeyong added. Forever the leader. Forever the hyung.

But no matter how many responses he got – whether angry or just plain scared – Park pushed on as though it didn’t affect him. As though he were just reading the morning weather on the news. And Minhyuk realised in that moment that this man they were looking to as a pillar of strength was distancing himself from their pain just so he could make his own job easier.

“We assumed,” he continued. “That the money would be picked up by one of the abductors. But that was not the case. Most likely in order to protect their identity from Jisung, they sent Donghyuck instead.”

Taeyong looked as if he’d been electrocuted.

At the start of Park’s explanation, NCT’s leader had risen to his feet and stepped closer to the detective in order to hear every detail with crystal clarity, but now his strength seemed to drain from his body with alarming speed and his knees gave out, bringing him to the floor.

Nobody moved to help him. Nobody even could.

“The undercover officers we had on the scene were not aware of this as we weren’t able to give Jisung a wire. They automatically assumed, understandably so, that Jisung was speaking with his hyungs’ captors. They are not to blame for what happened.”

Minhyuk’s heart was thudding against his ribcage, begging to be released so it could flop about uselessly in a pool of its own blood on the floor. And if he was that scared, he couldn’t imagine what the others were feeling. What Taeyong was feeling.

“It seems that one of the abductors recognised that the police were present, because Donghyuck suddenly started running and our officers gave chase. They believed him to be trying to escape without giving any information on the release of the hostages, and so they fired.”

There was a moment. A split second. A nanogram of time. Where nobody uttered a single sound. But the eruption was coming. Minhyuk felt it. And he didn’t have to wait long for its arrival.

“YOU SHOT HIM?!” Taeyong screamed, scrambling up off the floor and lunging for Park with tears streaming down his face and his voice hoarse and raw. “YOU SHOT HIM! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT? HE’S JUST A KID! HE’S A FUCKING CHILD AND YOU FUCKING SHOT HIM? YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO PROTECT HIM! YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO BRING THEM HOME TO ME AND YOU LET YOUR PEOPLE SHOOT MY LITTLE BROTHER!”

Park took the beating. It wasn’t as if Taeyong was stable enough to do any real damage. He was sobbing too hysterically, shaking too violently, and the detective was actually the only reason he was still standing, even as he pummelled the man with his fists and continued to scream profanities at the top of his shredded lungs.

“Taeyong …” Junmyeon murmured as he finally stepped forwards and gently pulled Taeyong away. “Stop, Taeyong. Stop.”

Minhyuk could do nothing more than watch in a stunned stupor as Taeyong sank to the floor with his senior’s arms around him, wailing into his hyung’s chest as his fingers scrabbled for hold on either shirt or skin.

And he thought of Changkyun again.

“Is he dead?”

Surprisingly, it was Joshua who spoke up and Minhyuk tightened his grip around his friend’s shoulders, his concern growing when Joshua continued to show absolutely no sign of emotion in a face that was so attractive and yet now appeared so gaunt.

“I don’t know,” Park replied, voice still hardened and harsh. Whatever he needed to get through this while Taeyong was still curled up in Junmyeon’s arms, crying his heart out. “From the perspective of the officer who fired the shot, the bullet only grazed Donghyuck’s arm. So as long as it didn’t get lodged in the bone, it shouldn’t be a serious injury.”

He sighed again, and Minhyuk could see the way his mask was starting to crack and crumble. Maybe it was the reality of what he was saying, how he was describing one of his own shooting a nineteen-year-old kid, or maybe it was the gut-wrenching choking sounds Taeyong had started making. But his resolve was starting to fail him.

“Donghyuck dropped the money before he escaped in the van that was waiting for him. It’s probable that the abductors had some kind of leverage to keep him obeying their orders. But seeing as they didn’t get their ransom demand, it is unlikely they will release the hostages.”

“And how likely is it that they’ll kill them?” Namjoon hissed through his fingers, his face still cupped in his trembling hands. “What was it? ‘If we see any police in the surrounding area, Nakamoto Yuta will lose three fingers.’?”

At this point, Minhyuk was wondering how Taeyong was even still conscious with the severity of his hyperventilating even as Junmyeon stroked his hair and tried to soothe his panic and pain.

Park had promised these people safety. He’d promised them the best. But then he disregarded a clear rule in the ransom demand even though he knew what the punishment would be if they were caught.

If these monsters didn’t murder their captives then Yuta was about to have three of his fingers amputated. And hadn’t Sehun read that Donghyuck would be the one to do it? The thought alone made Minhyuk want to throw up.

“I am truly sorry,” Park was saying. “But we have people working twenty-four hours a day to track these bastards down. The police department and the FBI are doing everything they can to find your friends.”

But whether or not they would find them alive … That was the real question.

 

\-----------------------------

           “And he just left after that?” Hyunwoo gaped after Minhyuk finished recounting the meeting. “He just left Taeyong-ssi … Like that?”

Minhyuk nodded deftly.

He’d tried to get Joshua to lie down, afraid that he would collapse or vomit or throw himself out of a window but the interim leader of Seventeen had been adamant about reporting back to Seungcheol and the rest of the group. And he’d been adamant about doing it alone.

“They’re going to kill them, hyung,” Minhyuk whispered. “They’re going to kill them and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

In situations when even Hyunwoo was rendered speechless, unable to procure any words of comfort or assurance in a time that desperately needed so much more than that, then it was bad. It was catastrophically, earth-shatteringly bad.

“I’m going to bed,” Minhyuk announced as he pushed out of his chair. He couldn’t sit there any longer. “Goodnight, hyung.”

But as he was ascending the stairs, a thought struck him. A delusion. A nightmare. And the only thing he could think to do was head straight for the first door he came to and push it open.

Changkyun was fast asleep, still fully clothed and lying on top of the covers with his headphones slapped over his ears. The room was dark but Minhyuk knew it too well to make it across without crashing into anything or stubbing his toe.

He lowered himself onto the bed beside his maknae, gently reaching out to unhook the headset from Changkyun’s hair before depositing it on the dresser and wrapping his arms around the unconscious body.

He held him close. And tight. So tight that the kid mumbled something in his sleep as he started to wake, but Minhyuk just shushed him back into the realm of darkness where he could be safe from the knowledge of what was out there.

Of what could have so easily targeted Monsta X.

Of what could have so easily taken Changkyun.

Minhyuk prayed for the first time in his life that night, arms still looped around his maknae’s body as he felt the baby breathing against his chest and reminded himself yet again just how lucky he had been to avoid the curse that had befallen his friends.  


	22. Hit Him Or Slit Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Chan (Dino of SEVENTEEN)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Wonwoo! My first impression of you was that you were one of these tsundres who tries to act cool because they get embarrassed with all the crack headedness. But now I realise you're just as crazy as the others. My handsome boy, have a wonderful day!
> 
> Also, THIS IS A REALLY GORY CHAPTER SO DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH

“You’re still beautiful,” Chan muttered under his breath as he pulled his sleeve over his hand and then pressed it to the mouth of the water bottle, upturning it so that the fabric was soaked without the fluid being spilt too much. “Nothing they do is ever going to change that.”

He knew Jeonghan couldn’t hear him. He hadn’t been conscious in hours and it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon, but Chan was finding comfort in talking even if he was the only one receiving it.

“I’m dying before you,” he whispered, using his sodden sleeve to clean some of the dried blood off Jeonghan’s face. “If they’re going to kill you then they’ll have to kill me first. I don’t care if I have to strangle them myself, hyung. They are not touching you.”

Baldy was hovering at the foot of the stairs, watching with narrowed eyes as Chan, Jungkook and Sehun ate their tri-daily meal of fast food take-outs.

Chan knew that he was supposed to be drinking his water but Tattoo had never said he couldn’t wash his hyung’s bloodied face so he wasn’t necessarily breaking the rules.

But it had felt like hours since the black army had come pounding down the stairs and snatched Yuta and Donghyuck away for whatever awful excursion they had planned for them. They could be dead already. 

At that moment, as if on cue, the door crashed open and Donghyuck screamed.

Chan’s head snapped up, heart jumping to his throat, just in time to see Muscles hurling Yuta down the stairs.

He was still bound and wrapped in tape but even if he hadn't been, he probably wouldn’t have had the strength to prevent himself from tumbling all the way to the bottom. 

And when he hit the concrete, he just lay there like a marionette with its strings cut, an awful guttural choking sound spluttering from behind the gag. It was the only indication that he was still alive.

“What the hell?” Sehun yelled, scrambling up from his place beside Minseok and lunging for the broken body. “What are you doing?”

Chan tried to push himself to his feet but before he even took a step, Muscles was shoving Sehun back and seizing a handful of Yuta’s hair so he could drag him to the centre of the room, ignoring the pained wheezing and Sehun’s cries of outrage and horror.

“Sit down!” came Tattoo’s roar from the top of the stairs as he descended with his eyes pulled into narrow slits of fury and his hand fastened around Donghyuck’s elbow, dragging the boy with him. “All of you, get on the floor now!”

Chan obeyed immediately, dropping to his knees in front of Jeonghan’s chair and grabbing hold of his hyung’s thigh, squeezing in reassurance just in case there was some part of him that was still awake.

He watched as Tattoo released his grip on Donghyuck and the boy staggered forwards several steps before his legs seemed to buckle and he crashed to the ground beside Yuta’s ragged and barely breathing body.

“Hyuck?” Chan whispered in an attempt to get the kid’s attention. “Hyuck, are you okay?”

But Donghyuck clearly wasn’t okay. He was clutching his arm to his chest, fingers smeared with scarlet and face dripping with tears, but his sole focus was on Yuta as he used his one good hand to stroke soothing motions into his hyung's bloodied hair.  

“It’s okay … It’s okay … It’s okay …” Chan heard him sobbing in a whisper, and he wanted nothing more than to cross the distance between them and pull that devastated little boy into his arms.

“I didn’t want to do this!” Tattoo was fuming, ripping off his baseball cap and clutching at a fistful of his own hair. “If you’d just done what you were supposed to then this wouldn’t have to happen!”

He was screaming at Donghyuck, oblivious to the teenager’s cries, and finally realisation dawned on Chan. Finally, it clicked in his head and he knew what was about to go down. And he felt like he was going to vomit.

Tattoo straightened up from where he’d crouched beside Donghyuck and turned to his goons, nodding his head curtly to signal the beginning of what Chan thought would be the worst half an hour of his entire life.

It wasn’t until several days later that he realised that wasn’t the case.

Muscles grabbed the chair Yuta had spent the entire week tied to and dragged it over to where the boy lay as Baldy fastened his arms around his victim’s chest and heaved him into a kneeling position.

“Please …” Donghyuck wailed, reaching out in a desperate attempt to hold on only to let out a cry of agony and grab onto his injured arm again. “Please don’t do this! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Just please don’t do this to him!”

Chan was numb. In denial. Telling himself that what he thought was about to happen wasn’t what was actually going to happen. These people weren’t that cruel. They couldn’t be. No one was that cruel.

Baldy pulled a knife from his back pocket and cut the ropes on Yuta’s wrists, allowing his captive’s arms to flop lifelessly to his sides as his head lolled onto his chest and his body sagged in the grip that was keeping it upright.

“Please … It’s not his fault … Please … Hurt me instead …”

Muscles positioned the chair in front of the kneeling boy and Baldy twisted one of Yuta’s arms behind his back before taking hold of the other and pinning it against the seat.

Now Chan knew that these people were that cruel. And they were actually going to do this.

“He didn’t do anything wrong!” Sehun bellowed as the reality seemed to dawn on him as well. “You can prove your point without hurting him! You don’t have to hurt him!”

Tattoo started towards Minseok, raising a warning hand and Sehun fell silent immediately. He’d been trained. By now, they all had. Trained to know when to shut up or else they would listen to their hyungs scream.

Muscles pulled Donghyuck up from the floor and forcefully turned him to face the chair so that he and Yuta were sitting opposite each other on either side of the wooden structure, Yuta’s hand awaiting its punishment in the middle.

“Please don’t do this …”

“Get the camera ready,” Tattoo growled, and Chan glared at him.

That was the only thing he could do: glare. He couldn’t speak up, he couldn’t lash out, he couldn’t make a single move to protect either Yuta or Hyuck because no matter how horrific the situation was, Jeonghan had to be his first priority.

Beanie came jogging down the stairs and less than three seconds later, Baldy was pressing a hammer into Donghyuck’s violently trembling hands with a feral hiss of, “Hold still”.

“I’m not going to do this!” Donghyuck screamed in response, closing his eyes and shaking his head even as Baldy scooped up a roll of tape and used it to fasten the weapon to his palm so that he couldn’t let go. “I won’t do it! You can’t make me do it! I’m not going to do it!”

Chan hadn’t realised he was crying until he felt the wetness on his face and he turned away, not wanting to show these monsters his tears. That was when he saw what Jungkook and Sehun were doing, and it only made his tears fall faster.

The two of them were kneeling beside their hyungs’ chairs, Jungkook with his hands over Yoongi’s ears and Sehun with his over Minseok’s. They were trying to protect them from the pain they were all about to hear.

“Hit him!”

“NO!”

“Hit him or I slit his throat!”

“PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS!”

Chan closed his eyes. He climbed onto Jeonghan’s lap and dug the tips of his fingers into his hyung’s ears. He could feel his nails gathering wax but he didn’t care. He buried his face in his big brother’s shoulder and tried to block out the noises around him.

“You have three seconds!”

Donghyuck’s sobbing had reached an intensity so high that his words were no longer coherent. He was just screaming. Screaming and crying and begging and pleading and Chan just wanted it to be over.

He hated himself but he just wanted Donghyuck to bring that hammer down and shatter Yuta’s bones. Only then would the noises stop. And he needed quiet. He needed quiet like he needed oxygen.

He couldn’t listen to Donghyuck scream any longer.

“Three!”

“HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!”

“I’m going to cut him open, Donghyuck! Don’t think that I won’t!”

“I CAN’T DO IT! I WON’T DO IT! I WON’T DO IT!”

“Two!”

“PLEASE! I’LL DO ANYTHING!”

“I swear to God, Donghyuck, either you smash his hand in or I make you watch as I slice open his stomach and show him his own intestines before he dies!”

“Please … Please … Please …”

They’d broken him, Chan realised. They had well and truly broken him and now he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do but obey their commands if he wanted Yuta to live.

It was a disgusting decision.

On the one hand, if Donghyuck did this then Yuta would at least survive but he would be in unimaginable agony, shrieking and howling and sobbing until he passed out. And on the other hand, if Donghyuck refused then they would kill his hyung but the torture would be over.

Chan couldn’t imagine. He couldn’t even begin to imagine. He just held Jeonghan like his life depended on it and thanked the God he had lost faith in that he wasn’t in the same position as Donghyuck was.

“One!”

Yuta’s scream was unlike any other Chan had ever heard.

There was so much pain and fear and anguish in that heart-wrenching sound and it seemed to go on forever, mingling with Donghyuck’s wails of guilt and horror and panic.

Everyone in that room had heard the crunch of bones beneath skin as the metal head of that hammer slammed into the fragile digits.

He’d done it. They’d really made him do it.

Chan didn’t want to look but at the same time, he couldn’t resist the sick fascination that clouded his mind. He raised his head from Jeonghan’s shoulder, keeping his fingers firmly lodged in his hyung’s ears even as Yuta’s screams finally dwindled.

And he flung himself off his friend’s lap just in time to vomit all over the floor.

Donghyuck had knocked the chair aside as Tattoo’s men had released their hold and permitted him to throw himself on top of Yuta but not before he'd torn the hammer from his unwilling grip and hurled it across the room.

The older boy was lying flat on his back, still gagged and blindfolded but no longer tied, and it was pretty obvious as to why.

His left hand was a mangled mess of misshapen fingers, blackened bruises and bones protruding from broken, bleeding skin. It didn’t even remotely resemble a hand anymore, and Chan wondered how many times they’d forced Donghyuck to hit it to make it look as disgusting as it did.

Yuta was unconscious. Either that or he’d bitten his own tongue off because no sound was coming from his throat. He just lay there with his taped-up face lolling to the side and Donghyuck clinging to his chest, sobbing into his shirt.

Chan shut his mind off, focusing instead on keeping his lunch in his stomach and fastening his hold on Jeonghan's thigh.

He heard more voices behind him but it was at least another five minutes before he stopped hearing that deafening ringing sound. 

“Did you get it?” Tattoo’s voice growled out, low and solemn, and one of his guys nodded as he pocketed the phone. “Good. Find someone on the contact list and send it to them. If this doesn’t get the message across then I don’t know what will.”

There was no sadistic glint in his eye, no enjoyment from watching another’s pain, and Chan realised then that these people were monsters – there was absolutely no doubt about that – but what Tattoo had said was true.

They really hadn’t wanted to do this.

And then they were gone, traipsing back up the stairs and abandoning their captives with the boy who couldn’t stop apologising through his tears and the boy with a mess of mushy pulpy flesh for a hand.  


	23. Frozen In Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Jung Jaehyun (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much has happened!
> 
> EXO-SC debut!! NCT 127 music video! Dream comeback announcement! BTS hiatus (finally)!! And Seventeen prologue trailer!! So many wonderful things coming our way!!

           The door opened too loudly and Jaehyun pressed a finger to his lips, silencing Jaemin’s entrance before he could wake the little boy who had finally succumbed to unconsciousness after hours and hours of crying.

“He’s asleep?” Jaemin whispered, eyes travelling over to the Jisung-shaped lump beneath the bed covers, curled up in the foetal position with his face buried in a pillow. “Finally …”

Jaehyun just nodded as he reached out to straighten the blankets. It was a useless action but he’d been sitting in the same chair for far too long and his body was begging for movement before it turned to stone.

“Hyung?” Jaemin prodded, carefully tiptoeing across the room so that he could sink onto the edge of Jisung’s bed, a hand reaching out to rest atop his maknae’s leg. “I can stay with him if you want to go get something to eat.”

He was right. Jaehyun hadn’t consumed a single mouthful since Jisung’s return from the disastrously unsuccessful money drop. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t sit still but at the same time, he couldn’t leave that traumatised child to cry alone.

At this very moment, those men could be hurting his friends and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Absolutely nothing. It was the helplessness that was truly starting to drive every single one of them insane.  

“Okay,” he conceded, rising from his chair with a barely-concealed grunt and giving Jaemin’s shoulder a squeeze before he sidled to the bedroom door and left the darkened room.

He wasn’t actually planning on eating anything because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach it. And treating himself to a meal just seemed too selfish when it was blindingly obvious that Yuta and Donghyuck weren’t going to be getting that same luxury.

But his feet led him on autopilot to the kitchen where the dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, teetering precariously on the point of clattering into a shattered mess on the tiled floor. Doyoung usually did the dishes. Or Kun. But neither of them were prepared for any of that at the moment.

“Jaehyun?”

If fear could kill then Jaehyun would be dead. The voice had come from nowhere, so eerily soft and terrified that he almost jumped out of his skin before his heart seemed to register that this particular threat was not a real one.

“Yeah?” he responded, glancing over at Taeyong’s ghostly figure in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

His leader was pale. Deathly pale. His eyes were shimmering, his legs were unsteady and his hands were trembling so violently that he almost dropped the phone he was gripping with whitened fingernails.

And Jaehyun just knew.

“What’s happened?”

Had they found a body? Had the police found the corpse of one of his brothers? Of both of his brothers? Or had something happened to his friends in the hospital? Jongin? Chanyeol? Seokjin or Seungcheol? Had one of them passed away from the shock of knowing they wouldn’t be getting their members back?

It was none of those things.

“I … I just got sent a video … from Donghyuck’s phone.”

Jaehyun’s blood ran cold. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his heart stopped beating altogether. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the drop and already there was a video in Taeyong’s inbox.

“We should take it to the police,” Jaehyun forced out, steadying himself on the kitchen counter as his vision started to blur slightly. “It might … It might have something important.”

“I need to watch it.”

“Hyung …”

“I need to watch it,” Taeyong repeated, blinking out his first tear. One of many more to come. “I need to know what they’re doing to them. I need to know they’re still alive.”

Jaehyun understood. He felt it too: the overwhelming sensation of terror dousing his body in its icy feel. That video could contain so many things: another ransom demand, more torture, possibly even a murder.

They could kill one of the hostages. They could afford to. They would have seven more to continue bargaining with. Those people – those kids – were just pawns in this grotesque game of chess, their lives being dangled tantalisingly in front of the opposition, ready for a sacrifice at any time.

“Will you watch it with me?” Taeyong whispered, so quiet that Jaehyun barely heard him. “I can’t do it on my own.”

He should have said no. The nightmares that followed were enough to convince him of that but in the moment, Jaehyun was at the mercy of his own twisted curiosity. Like Taeyong, he needed to have some kind of idea what was happening in that other world where Yuta and Donghyuck were.

“Okay.”

They both moved simultaneously, wordlessly, towards the island in the middle of the kitchen and seated themselves on the padded stools, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, before Taeyong put the phone on the polished surface in front of them.

“Wait,” Jaehyun choked. “We should … We should use headphones.”

There could be screaming. A lot of it. Screaming in pain, screaming in fear, and they had to protect the rest of the people in this house from suffering the anguish of hearing that sound.

Taeyong’s hands were too shaky to insert the plug into the appropriate hole at the top of his phone and Jaehyun took over in order to save his hyung the embarrassment of admitting he couldn’t do it himself.

And then they were ready. There was no more stalling.

The PLAY button sat in the middle of the screen: a white triangle positioned sideways, pointing off to the right as it sat in the centre of a thick circle, waiting to be pressed. And the thumbnail was spine-chilling.

Jaehyun started the video, unaware that there were already tears gliding down his face, and the sound of his younger brother’s sobbing flooded his ears almost instantly.

There was a chair, wooden and ugly, with two people kneeling either side of it: Yuta and Donghyuck. Yuta’s head was bent backwards, the man crouching behind him using one hand to hold his arm behind his back and the other to pin his wrist to the seat in front of him.

Jaehyun wished he could look at the captor’s face, identify some – any – features, but he was mostly out of the shot and when he did occasionally slip onto the screen, his entire head was concealed behind a mask and a baseball cap.

“Oh, God …” Taeyong whimpered, bringing his fingers up to his mouth. “Oh, God, no …”

Yuta’s face was wrapped in duct tape, looping all the way around his head and plastered over his eyes and his mouth, effectively robbing him of both the ability to see and to speak. And he was bleeding. From the head, from the hands, from the neck, from the face.

He barely looked alive.  

_“Please … It’s not his fault … Please … Hurt me instead …”_

Jaehyun was convinced he was going to be sick as he looked at Donghyuck for the first time.

He was hysterical, tears waterfalling down his flushed face and mingling with the snot and spit that spewed from his nose and mouth, and as Jaehyun looked closer, he saw the splatter of scarlet on the sleeve of the boy’s hoodie.

That was the gunshot wound. How badly would it hurt? How horribly was he suffering?

_“He didn’t do anything wrong! You can prove your point without hurting him! You don’t have to hurt him!”_

The second voice came from out of the shot and Jaehyun recognised Sehun as the owner. He wondered if his senior was tied down as well, unable to help and forced to watch the humiliation and the torture Donghyuck and Yuta were being subjected to.

“Please … Please … Please …” Taeyong was chanting under his breath, hand still clamped over his mouth and shoulders quivering almost as if he were a phone on vibrate. “Please … Please … Please …”

Jaehyun saw the hammer and he wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to rip the plugs from his ears and leap up from his chair and sprint into the bathroom to empty his guts up all over the floor. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move an inch.

He could only watch as Donghyuck’s hand was seized in a vice-like grip and the weapon was pressed into his palm, his fingers forced to close around the wooden handle by the layers of tape that were wound around his fist.

_“I’m not going to do this! I won’t do it! You can’t make me do it! I’m not going to do it!”_

“Oh, God … Oh, God … Oh, God …”

Taeyong was hyperventilating and if Jaehyun was in his right mind, he would have ripped the phone away from his friend in a heartbeat. He would have protected him from the horrors that they were about to witness because Taeyong had taken this harder than anyone else.

But there was something about the human brain that froze Jaehyun to the spot, refusing to let him do anything but stare unblinkingly at the phone screen in front of him. Watch as Donghyuck was forced to use a hammer on his hyung.

_“Hit him!”_

_“NO!”_

_“Hit him or I slit his throat!”_

_“PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS!”_

Yuta was starting to come round from whatever injury he’d sustained as the screaming in that dark basement-looking room reached its peak. His head was trying to lift itself, neck muscles straining with the effort, and the hand that was sitting on top of the chair was beginning to twitch.

He was going to be awake for this.

_“You have three seconds!”_

The man behind Donghyuck moved in, trapping the kid against the chair so that he couldn’t escape, and the guy who held Yuta seemed to tighten his grip, eliciting a muffled cry of agony as the captive’s arm was twisted further backwards.

_“Three!”_

_“HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!”_

Jaehyun wondered how Donghyuck could still see straight considering how violently he was crying, his face swollen and puffy and dripping with his own fluids. His eyes were fixed on Yuta and so he saw the moment the knife was pressed up against his hyung’s exposed throat.

_“I’m going to cut him open, Donghyuck! Don’t think that I won’t!”_

Taeyong was sobbing. Loud, ugly, suffocating sobs that Jaehyun couldn’t even hear over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. He couldn’t quite believe what he was about to see.

He wanted to reach through the screen and pull his friends from that hell hole but then he remembered that this had already happened. Whatever the outcome was, he and Taeyong were seeing this while Donghyuck and Yuta were already dealing with it.

_“I CAN’T DO IT! I WON’T DO IT! I WON’T DO IT!”_

Donghyuck was shaking his head, eyes screwed shut, but the man looming over him took hold of his wrist and forced it into the air so the hammer was hovering above its target: Yuta’s hand.

_“Two!”_

_“PLEASE! I’LL DO ANYTHING!”_

Yuta was completely awake now. It was obvious even though his eyes were obscured by the cruelly adhesive blindfold, and he was doing everything he could to get away. But Jaehyun could tell he was too weak, too injured and too sick to overpower the monstrous brute who was holding him.

_“I swear to God, Donghyuck, either you smash his hand in or I make you watch as I slice open his stomach and show him his own intestines before he dies!”_

_“Please … Please … Please …”_

It was going to happen any minute now. Jaehyun could feel it and, from the way his panic was building and building and building, Taeyong could too. These people were about to go through with the threat they’d made forever ago.

If we see any police in the surrounding area, Nakamoto Yuta will lose three fingers.

Jaehyun had to close his eyes. He had to close them now before he saw bones breaking beneath a metal anvil. His best friend’s bones breaking beneath the metal anvil that Donghyuck was wielding.

_“One!”_

Ten years could pass. Twenty years could pass. Fifty years could pass and Jaehyun would forever remember that scream. It played on a loop inside his head for the rest of his life and nothing he ever did was enough to eradicate it from his memory.

He watched with streaming eyes as Yuta’s fragile fingers were crushed beneath the head of that hammer. He saw the moment that bones broke through the skin and blood was splattered over the chair.

He witnessed Yuta’s body going terrifyingly rigid before spasming for several seconds of unimaginable pain and then sagging against the chest positioned behind him.  

And he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Up until this moment, he’d managed to convince himself that none of this was real. That somehow, some miracle would befall his friends and the police would come barrelling into the room and sweep them out of harm’s way.

But it hadn’t. And Donghyuck had just broken Yuta’s hand but the video didn’t stop. The guy behind Hyuck fastened his hammy hand around the little boy’s skinny wrist and the hammer went up again only to come down twice as hard as the first time.

It took Taeyong tumbling out of his seat and lunging for the sink, choking up the contents of his stomach into the basin, to finally break Jaehyun out of his stunned stupor.

Yuta fell limp against the ground, spiralling into silence, and Donghyuck was lying on top of him, weeping apologies into his bloodstained shirt, and Jaehyun hated himself for turning off the phone even though there were 96 seconds left on the video.

He just switched off their pain. They couldn’t do that, but he could. And that wasn’t fair. He could choose when the torture would stop but they were trapped there forever, frozen in time with their bones broken and their bodies bleeding.

“Taeyong …” he wheezed, trying to push himself out of his chair only for his legs to fail and his hands being forced to grip onto the island counter for support. “Taeyong-hyung …”

He didn’t know what to say.  


	24. One Problem At A Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Jeon Jungkook (BTS)

            The door slammed shut at the top of the stairs and Jungkook was left with the sound of Yuta’s screams ringing in his ears and Donghyuck’s sobbing echoing off the stone walls. He swiped at the tears on his face and pressed his lips into Yoongi’s hair before bracing himself and turning around.

Chan had thrown up, the sickly stench of vomit wafting through the air to poison the entire room, and Sehun was sitting on the floor with a dumbstruck expression on his face as though he couldn’t quite believe he was existing in this space and time.

“Donghyuck,” Jungkook choked out, slowly rising to his feet only to be hit with a wave of nausea that sent him stumbling before he managed to regain his balance.

Donghyuck didn’t even acknowledge his existence. He remained clamped around Yuta’s unconscious body, clinging to him like a koala, as he wailed profuse apologies into the bloodstained material of his hyung’s shirt.

“Donghyuck,” Jungkook tried again, stumbling across the floor and sinking to his knees beside the boy. “Donghyuck … I …”

His eyes wandered to Yuta’s hand and he screwed his eyes shut, ferociously battling the urge to vomit all over himself. The boy’s fingers were indistinguishable, the fleshy pulp merging with fragments of shattered bone and created one huge bloody mess of skin and tendons.

Jungkook could only thank the stars that Yuta was unconscious and couldn’t feel the pain.

“Donghyuck,” he spluttered for a third time, tentatively reaching out to rest his hand atop the kid’s shoulder. “Donghyuck, I need you to sit up.”

Donghyuck’s sobbing only increased, his grip on his hyung tightening and his head shaking violently from side to side. His hyperventilation had increased in severity to the point where Jungkook was concerned he was going to pass out, and that couldn’t be good for his health.

He glanced over to where Sehun was sitting, twisting his face into an expression that he hoped read, _help me, Goddammit,_ but it took several more seconds before his hyung managed to compose himself enough to move.

“Donghyuck,” he soothed, crawling away from Minseok’s chair and over to where Donghyuck was lying on top of Yuta as though he were trying to shield him from further harm. “Donghyuck, it’s Sehun-hyung. Can you sit up for me, baby?”

Another wail. Another frantic shake of the head. Jungkook and Sehun exchanged a look of pure helplessness over the top of the younger boys’ bodies.

If they ever made it out of this alive, Donghyuck was going to be in therapy until he was sixty.

“Hey, Hyuckie,” Sehun tried again, gently resting his hand atop Donghyuck’s back. “You’re hurt and Yuta’s hurt and I know that you want to hold onto him and keep him safe but we need to look after the both of you. So can you sit up?”

Finally – _finally_ – Donghyuck relinquished his grip and Jungkook’s hand leapt forwards to help pull him into a slightly more vertical position. He was about to try and coax the boy away from Yuta but he supposed he should have expected Donghyuck to pull his hyung’s head into his lap.

“Okay,” Sehun breathed, his fingers pressing into his lips as he, too, was hit with the curse of the crushed hand. “Take your hoodie off, Hyuckie, so I can get to your arm.”

It took the effort of all three of them to get Donghyuck out of the bloodstained garment, his teeth biting down on his lip and his eyes screwed shut in agony as his injured limb was jostled far too many times.

“Hey, Chan,” Jungkook whispered, tossing the sweater over to where Chan was still kneeling beside Jeonghan in a state of shock. “Can you clear up the puke?”

He knew it was a disgusting task but someone had to do it and just one look at Chan’s greyish skin and trembling hands told Jungkook that he wouldn’t be of any help in Yuta and Donghyuck’s care. He was too traumatised.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, picking up the material and moving over to the sour-smelling puddle of semi-digested chunks. “I can do that.”

Jungkook returned his attention to Donghyuck, wincing in sympathy when he got a glimpse of the gash in the kid’s upper arm. It wasn’t dangerously deep and there was no bone visible at the bottom of the bloody crevice but it was leaking scarlet fluid at a steady pace, some of it already crusting into crimson flakes on his skin.

“Jesus …” Sehun was muttering as he pulled off his own hoodie and hesitated for a split second before pressing it down to the wound.

Donghyuck hissed in pain, a few more tears dribbling from his closed eyelids, and his entire upper body flinched but his hands kept stroking Yuta’s hair. Jungkook could tell the only thing keeping him grounded was trying to care for his unconscious hyung.

“I’m sorry,” Sehun whispered, his eyes travelling over Donghyuck’s head to meet Jungkook’s gaze before the both of them were automatically drawn to Yuta’s mangled hand.

They had to do something. The bleeding wasn’t dangerously excessive but the wounds were deep and grotesque and completely vulnerable to infection. They had to do something or Yuta would get sepsis. And sepsis could kill.

But as Jungkook looked at the splatter of flesh and bone on the floor, he wondered how the hell they were supposed to treat that without any medical supplies or even a bottle of water to wash it out.

He briefly wondered how long it would take the bacteria to fester into his bloodstream and ultimately stop his heart. If they didn’t get out of here in the next day or two, Yuta’s death was inevitable. The most they could hope for was that it would be quick and as painless as possible.

“Hey,” came Chan’s tremulous voice as he sidled over towards them, deliberately avoiding looking at any of the blood. “Use this.”

Jungkook reached out and took the pad of paper he was offering, immediately recognising it as the one they’d given Donghyuck just seconds after forcing him to shatter his hyung’s hand. The front page still had the second ransom note scribbled on its surface and Jungkook couldn’t help but stare blankly at the number they’d raised their demand to.

₩5.75 billion.

That’s how much they were worth now. That’s how much their companies had to pay to get them back. It was too much.

“One problem at a time,” Jungkook muttered to himself as he tore the note from the pad and scrunched it into a ball, hurling it across the room so that it bounced into the corner where they couldn’t see it. “One problem at a time.”

Chan was helping Sehun tear the sleeve off his hoodie so they could tie it around Donghyuck’s arm as a makeshift bandage. It wouldn’t be even remotely sterile but it was the best they could do with the limited options they had.

“One problem at a time.”

Jungkook flipped the pages until he reached the centre of the notepad where he hoped the paper was at its cleanest and ripped a single sheet from its spine of metal coils. He knew next to nothing about first aid and right now, he wished more than anything that he’d taken that class along with Seokjin and Yoongi.

His heart twisted inside his chest.

Seokjin.

“One problem at a time.”

He took the gentlest hold of Yuta’s elbow and slowly – ever so slowly – lifted his arm off the ground. Blood was dripping from what was left of his hand to form a scarlet puddle on the concrete floor, but Jungkook ignored it.

He couldn’t stop for a second or he would empty the entire contents of his stomach and then he’d be even more useless than he already was.

“Careful, Jungkook,” Sehun whispered as he tightened the hoodie sleeve in a knot around Donghyuck’s wound. “Be really fucking careful.”

Jungkook nodded as he placed the sheet of paper on top of Yuta’s chest and then, as though he were handling broken glass – or broken metacarpals – he lowered the limb so that the shattered stubs of Yuta’s fingers were resting against the paper.

Anything was better than this filthy stone floor.

The page was stained scarlet in seconds, blood seeping through the fibres and probably adding more stains to the boy’s T-Shirt beneath and Jungkook looked up at Sehun with a pleading helplessness in his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

The blank look of fear on Sehun’s face told him all he needed to know: none of them had any idea what they were doing.

“Here,” Chan suddenly offered, raising himself up on his knees so he could slip his belt from the waistband of his jeans. “To stop the toxins and all that shit.”

Jungkook took it from him and looped it around Yuta’s upper arm, making sure it was secured just above his elbow before pulling it so tight that he saw flesh being pinched in the buckle and a vein popping up through the skin, sliding the leather snake through the brass and effectively cutting off the blood supply to the hand.

Yuta could lose his arm for all they knew. But at least they would be buying him time.

Donghyuck’s incessant sobbing had dwindled into occasionally sniffs, barely even aware of his own pain as he continued to comb his fingers through his hyung’s hair. It was a heartbreaking sight: a teenager cradling his big brother in his arms, both of them paper pale and drenched in blood.

“Chan, stay here,” Sehun muttered as he reached out and fastened his grip on Jungkook’s sleeve, tugging him upwards. “Kook, come with me.”

The two of them moved away from the scarlet huddle on the floor and retreated to the top of the stairs, sinking down on the exact same step they’d resided on all those days ago when they’d had that awful fight.

They’d never exactly apologised or even mentioned the things that had been said that day – or night – because it just seemed so irrelevant. They were all suffering, they were all scared out of their wits and screaming at each other wasn’t going to help anybody.  

“Are you okay?” Jungkook whispered, concern clouding his voice as he watched Sehun burying his face in his hands.

A bitter chuckle filtered through his hyung’s fingers. “Are any of us okay, Jungkook?”

“No, I don’t suppose we are.”

They looked down through the bars of the handrail to see Donghyuck, Yuta and Chan on the floor and Minseok, Jeonghan and Yoongi still in the chairs, still unconscious, still dying. It sickened Jungkook to think of it but maybe Sehun had been right.

Maybe it would be kinder to kill them.

“They raised the ransom,” he sighed, scrubbing absently at a bloodstain on his palm. “₩5.75 billion. There’s absolutely no way they’re going to pay that much.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

“We’re going to die here.”

He didn’t know if he expected Sehun to put an arm around him, mutter some useless words of comfort or just blatantly tell him that it wasn’t true. That they would be rescued and they would be returned home and everything would be fine. But he certainly hadn’t expected Sehun to agree with him.

“I know.”

They sat there, side by side, shoulders pressed together, thinking about what they would have been doing if none of this had happened. If none of them had been snatched from their houses or their cars or their concert venues.

“What’s the date?” Sehun suddenly expelled, expression hardened slightly as he frowned at the wall directly opposite them. “Today. What’s the date?”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook answered. “The drop was scheduled for the 3rd, right? So I imagine it’s the 4th or the 5th? It’s kind of hard to tell down here.”

Sehun nodded slowly. Sadly.

“It’ll be Baekhyun-hyung’s birthday soon.”

Jungkook had no reply. He couldn’t imagine Baekhyun waking up on the anniversary of his birth, knowing full well that there would be no celebrations, no parties, no cakes or presents or anything other than fear and loneliness and depression.

He wondered if he would still be here when his birthday rolled around. September 1st. Or would he be dead by then? Yoongi certainly would. Yoongi already had one foot in his grave.

“SEHUN!”

Chan’s scream cut through the silence like a whip crack, scaring Jungkook half to death as both he and Sehun leapt to their feet and leant over the bannister to see what had caused Seventeen’s maknae so much panic.

“Oh, God, no …” Sehun gasped out, and then he was sprinting down the steps, jumping the last six in one go so he could reach Minseok as quickly as humanly possible. “God, please, no … No …”

Jungkook followed, his heart in his throat and his mind on overdrive as he skidded to a stop in the middle of the basement and stared with wide, bulbous eyes as Minseok’s twitching turned to convulsions and his gasps turned to wheezes.

He was seizing right in front of them and there was absolutely nothing they could do.


	25. An Obedient Slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Oh Sehun (EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Mark! The goofiest, silliest, funniest and most talented little Canadian that I know. I love you so much and I hope you're resting and that, most importantly, you're happy!

            Sehun was on his knees in front of his hyung in a matter of seconds, his hands fretting uselessly in the air above Minseok’s body as his terrified mind tried to process what was happening and how he was supposed to deal with it.

His big brother was seizing, head snapped back, entire body contorting, the chair making loud scratching noises against the floor as it was jerked left and right with the violence of the tremors and there was an awful guttural choking noise from deep within his throat.

“No … No … No … No …”

There were so many things that could have caused a seizure. Maybe it was the head trauma. Maybe it was the dehydration. Maybe he had developed some grotesque illness that would kill him in a matter of seconds.

All Sehun knew was that Minseok was dying right in front of him.

His hands leapt forwards, fingers scrabbling at the duct tape around his hyung’s mouth and desperately searching for a corner or a crack or an edge that he could grab hold of and start pulling but he was shaking too badly.

“Help me!” he bellowed at Jungkook who had been standing at the foot of the stairs with his eyes bulging out of his head. “Jungkook, fucking help me!”

That choking sound was getting louder. Minseok must have vomited or bitten his tongue and now the blood or the bile was clogging up his throat and cutting off his air supply, slowly suffocating him in his own bodily fluid.

Jungkook threw himself on the floor beside them and with two pairs of eyes scrutinising the duct tape for any sign of weakness, they found the edge much quicker.

“I got it!” Jungkook gasped and Sehun latched onto the greyish strip, tugging it free as fast as humanly possible.

The seizure wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t even slowing down. Any minute now, Minseok could stop breathing as whatever was going wrong inside his body finally silenced his heart.

“Oh, God …” Sehun sobbed, unaware of when his tears had started to fall, as he finally ripped the duct tape from Minseok’s mouth and hurled it aside, cupping his hyung’s face in his hands and watching as a splatter of blood dribbled down his chin. “Oh, God … No …”

“Get him on the floor!” Jungkook ordered, his voice somehow managing to straighten itself out in the midst of all the panic.

Sehun slipped one arm beneath his hyung’s knees, another behind his back and hefted him off the chair, unhooking his bound hands and effectively freeing him from the wooden prison he’d been trapped within for the past eight or nine days.

He laid him on the floor, Jungkook rolling him onto his side to allow the froth and blood to pool in a sickening puddle in front of his mouth rather than slithering down his throat and into his lungs.

“Chan,” Sehun cried out, raising his tear-soaked face to see Chan kneeling beside Yuta and Donghyuck with a dumbstruck expression painting his features. “Chan, get help! Please, Chan, get them down here! He needs a hospital!”

But Chan was shaking his head, his own eyes welling up, as he pulled Donghyuck’s face into the crook of his neck so the traumatised boy wouldn’t have to witness something that would only increase the intensity of his nightmares.

“Chan!” Sehun pleaded. “Chan, please! Get them down here!”

“I can’t …”

“WHY THE FUCK NOT?”

“They’ll hurt Jeonghan-hyung,” Chan whispered and it finally clicked in Sehun’s head.

These people – these monsters – had conditioned them perfectly. They did what they were told when they were told and they didn’t question it because they knew what would happen if they did, and that was exactly what was happening right now.

Chan was too scared to alert their abductors of Minseok’s deterioration because he believed Jeonghan would pay the price. And who was Sehun to argue with that?

Jungkook was still holding onto Minseok, keeping him propped on his side and trying to cushion his head from slamming against the concrete floor, and Sehun was absolutely petrified of what he was about to do.

“HELP!” he screamed, scrambling up off the floor and sprinting up the stairs until he reached the door, hammering against the locked barrier with everything he had. “HELP US PLEASE! HELP! PLEASE! WE NEED HELP!”

This could kill them. It could kill Minseok. But Minseok was already dying and nothing these people did could possibly make his hyung any sicker. He was throwing their safety to the wings but he had absolutely nothing left to lose.

“PLEASE HELP US! MINSEOK-HYUNG’S SICK! HELP US! HE’S DYING! PLEASE!”

His fists were bruised, his throat was raw, but finally there was the click of the lock and Sehun stumbled backwards, heart in his mouth, not knowing what was awaiting him on the other side of that door.

Tattoo glared back at him with fury radiating from his every pore and he had a gun pointed at the spot right between Sehun’s eyes.

The kid swallowed, entire body freezing up at the sight of that black hole just a few inches from his forehead. He was quite literally staring down the barrel of a gun and his first instinct was to beg for his life, but his own survival was not the top of his priority list.

“Minseok-hyung’s seizing,” he rasped, begging Tattoo was his eyes to please – _please_ – put down the gun and get his best friend to a hospital. “He’s dying.”

There was a split second where Tattoo’s finger rested dangerously close to the trigger and Sehun had to resist the urge to close his eyes and wait for the end. But then:

“Bottom of the stairs. Now.”

Tattoo’s voice was barely above a whisper but it sent his captive scuttling backwards as fast as his trembling legs would allow him. His knees nearly gave out several times but he managed to close the distance between himself and Minseok, returning to his place on the floor and watching apprehensively as Tattoo advanced.

Another man was following him down the staircase, his leather jacket straining at the seams as it clung to biceps that were too big for it to encompass in its hold, and Tattoo hooked his gun into his belt as he reached Minseok and crouched down, elbows resting on his knees.

The fit had finally stopped but Sehun’s hyung was still fighting for breath, red-tinted saliva dripping from between his lips. His hands were still tied and the tape still covered his eyes but Sehun was almost positive he wasn’t conscious anyway.

“Hey,” came Tattoo’s gruff voice from behind his mask as he jerked his head in a motion that clearly told Jacket to approach. “Get over here.”

Sehun held his breath as Jacket joined Tattoo at Minseok’s side, the two of them staring down at the motionless body with their eyes narrowed. Almost as a reflex, he reached out an arm and pushed Jungkook back. He didn’t want anyone getting in the way if these people were going to help Minseok.

“What d’you think?” Tattoo mumbled and Jacket’s brow furrowed, a gnarled hand reaching out to dig into Minseok’s neck. “He gonna make it?”

There were shivers running up and down Sehun’s spine. He hated how calm these bastards were. Minseok was barely alive. An idiot could see that. But here they were, discussing his fate as casually as they’d talk about the weather.

“Please,” he whispered, visibly cringing when his abductors' paralysed him with their gazes. “He hasn’t eaten in over a week. He’s barely drunk anything. He’s already hurt from the car crash. He needs a hospital.”

Nobody moved.

“I understand that you need the money,” Sehun continued, gaining confidence with each second he wasn’t punished. “But you don’t need them. Minseok-hyung, Yoongi, Jeonghan, Yuta. They’re dying. They’re not going to survive much longer. Please let them go. They’ve been blindfolded this entire time. They don’t know anything. You can keep us for the ransom. But please … please, please, please … Don’t let them die.”

This wasn’t supposed to be his life. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He had planned to enlist in the military next year, do his service and then return to help his group conquer the world.

The idea of performing on stage after all of this was completely alien.  

Tattoo and Jacket were still glowering at him, seemingly struggling with some kind of internal decision they couldn’t make in front of their prisoners, and Sehun wondered if he’d just signed Minseok’s death warrant.

“Here.”

The water bottle flopped onto the floor in front of him, the plastic and the water making a dull thud as it collided with concrete. Sehun stared at it for a split second before he cupped his hand around the back of Minseok’s neck and pulled him into a sitting position.

“Thank you,” he whispered, sliding behind his hyung’s unconscious body so he could support him while his hands were free to unscrew the water bottle’s cap. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

He had to literally force the fluid down Minseok’s throat, pulling his chin back so it would slide down without a fuss and out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Jungkook, Chan and Donghyuck had all been given the same opportunity to give their hyungs a much-needed drink.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you.”

He hated himself. Begging, grovelling, sucking up to the people who were torturing his best friend. Not only did he hate himself, he was disgusted with himself.

The water bottle ran dry far too quickly and Minseok still hadn’t regained consciousness, his chin and the front of his shirt soaked with the rivulets that had escaped his lips, but his wheeze was starting to sputter into a regular breathing motion.

He was stabilising. Just about.

“Thank you, sir,” Sehun repeated for the umpteenth time, depositing the empty plastic on the floor beside him as he continued to cradle Minseok against his chest. “But he still needs a hospital. You could just drop him off outside one. You wouldn’t have to show your faces. Please, sir, he needs help. I can’t look after him down here.”

He would gladly, willingly, accept anything these people wanted to do to him. He wouldn’t scream, he wouldn’t fight, he would just lie still and let them rip his eyeballs out if that’s what they wanted. If that’s what it took to save Minseok from this hell.

“Get him back in the chair.”

“Sir, plea…”

“Quit it!” Tattoo spat, straightening up with a contemptuous poison in his eyes. “I get it. You love your hyung. You want to save him. You want to be labelled a hero, but I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here. Now get him back in the fucking chair.”

Sehun was crying. He wasn’t even ashamed of it anymore. He hoisted Minseok into his arms, cradling him like a child for a few final moments before he was forced to lower him back into that torture contraption. He tried to be as careful as possible but it was still a clumsy and probably painful process.

“Gag him.”

Obedient. An obedient slave. That’s all Sehun was now as he wrapped the tape around his hyung’s mouth, sealing his bloodied lips shut for what could potentially be the last time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in Minseok’s ear, combing his fingers through the greasy hair and pressing his lips to his big brother’s scalp. “I’m so sorry but I don’t think I can get you out of this.”

“Now keep quiet,” Tattoo ordered harshly, giving Yoongi’s hair a particularly violent ruffle as he and Jacket stalked over to the stairs and started their creaky ascension. “Or I swear to God, I’ll let them starve to death.”

The door swung shut. The lock clicked.

“They’re already starving to death,” Donghyuck hissed from where he was still sitting on the floor with Yuta in his arms. Clearly Tattoo had taken pity on the boy with the mangled hand and decided not to tie him up. 

No one said anything for a very long time. They were too busy stewing in their own misery. Their own pain and their own suffering. And Sehun had no idea where it came from but suddenly Jungkook decided to give them something they hadn’t been allowed to have in far too long: hope.

He was kneeling beside Yoongi when he said it, his hand closed around his hyung’s thigh in a comforting squeeze that undoubtedly went ignored as the boy continued to float around in the void of darkness.

And he just said it. Just like that. As if they hadn’t already considered it a thousand times. He just said it. Just like that.

“We’re escaping.”  


	26. Thinking About Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Do Kyungsoo (D.O. of EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Seungcheol! Baby or leader, I'm not quite sure. All I know is that I love you to death and that you have the ability to make me squeal at your adorableness and suffocate from your hotness. 
> 
> And happy birthday, Xiaojun! I don't know you that well yet because you're still so new to this crazy world of mine but I do know that you have the voice of an angel and I love you for it. Have a great day, baby!

          “Stop … Stop … Please, stop … St … Stop …”

That was all it took to wake Kyungsoo. He’d become someone who slept so lightly that even the faintest whisper from Jongin’s unconscious lips was enough to rouse him in an instant.

“Please … Please … Stop … Don’t … Please … Ple … Plea … Stop …”

Kyungsoo kicked the blanket off his body and rolled out of the armchair, digging at the dust in the corners of his eyes as he crossed the room in a single stride and sunk to his knees beside the couch Jongin was lying on.

“Don’t … Stop … Stop …”

“Jongin,” he mumbled, words still slurred with grogginess. “Jongin, wake up.”

He gave the younger boy’s shoulder a gentle shake and then a more fervent one when Jongin showed no sign of waking from one of a thousand nightmares that plagued his sleep every single time he closed his eyes.

Kyungsoo didn’t know what he saw that made him so scared, that had him mumbling teary pleas to an invisible foe as his head rolled about on the cushions and his hands scrabbled at his shirt. But he had an idea.

The car crash.

The car crash that had mangled his leg and left him unable to move without the aid of a wheelchair. The car crash that had rattled his brain around in his skull until he could no longer remember what colour jacket he’d been wearing that night.

The car crash that had resulted in Minseok and Sehun’s abduction.

“Jongin!” Kyungsoo shouted, raising his voice as he gave his best friend’s arm a particularly brutal tug. “Wake up!”

Jongin’s eyes flew open as his entire body jolted with the shock of being brought back to reality so violently and his gaze zapped from left to right, trying to process his surroundings and convince himself that he was no longer lying on that glass-strewn road.

“It’s fine. I’m here. It’s fine. It’s fine,” Kyungsoo soothed, perching on the edge of the couch and taking Jongin’s face in his hands so he could be sure that they were making eye contact. “You’re at Junmyeon-hyung’s flat in the living room with me and you’re okay.”

He watched as the glaze over Jongin’s eyes gradually faded to nothing and he seemed to regain his grip on the here and now rather than the there and then.

“Go back to sleep, Jongin. Everything’s okay. Just go back to sleep.”

He hadn’t really been awake anyway. He was just floating in limbo between asleep and not, so when his subconscious processed the gentle order from his best friend, his eyes slid closed and his body relaxed back into the cushions.

“Good job,” Kyungsoo praised under his breath, readjusting the blankets on top of his brother’s body and being careful to avoid the ugly mechanical brace caged around his leg that was supposed to be helping his mutilated tendons heal. “Good job, Jongin.”

Licking his lips as he suddenly realised just how thirsty he was, Kyungsoo pushed himself to his feet and sidled towards the kitchen where the dim glow of the stove light was casting a golden shadow on the carpet outside.

He was so tired. He was so scared. He was feeling so many emotions but he repressed every single one of them and he focused on caring for Jongin because that was the only way he knew how to cope with everything that was happening.

“Another nightmare?”

“Jesus Christ!” Kyungsoo hissed, slapping a hand over his chest in an attempt to soothe his panicked heart into a steady rhythm again as he turned to glare at Junmyeon’s exhausted body hunched in a chair at the table. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Thinking,” Junmyeon grunted back, staring down into the empty bottle of Soju he had cupped in both his hands.

“About?”

“Stuff.”

Kyungsoo sighed in resignation, shaking his head as he fished a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, downing it in one. He gave Junmyeon a scan, taking in the slump in his shoulders, the tears on his face and the slight flush to his cheeks from the alcohol in his system.

“How much have you drunk?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

He refilled his glass and took it to the table with him, sinking into a chair opposite his leader and staring down into the tiny ripples the water in the cup was making against the pleated edges.

“Unless you actually care about the rest of us.”

Junmyeon’s head shot up, his reactions surprisingly fast considering how intoxicated he was, and Kyungsoo raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him from across the polished wooden surface that separated them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his leader whispered, eyebrows furrowed in a cocktail of confusion and betrayal. “Of course … Of course I fucking care.”

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Kyungsoo countered. “How is getting drunk supposed to be helping anyone? Is it going to fix Jongin’s leg? Is it going to get Chanyeol-hyung out of the hospital any faster?”

His breath hitched.

“Is it going to bring Sehun and Minseok-hyung home?”

He was angry, he was exhausted and he wanted a leader. Yixing was trying, sure, but he was almost always at the hospital with Chanyeol, and Kyungsoo didn’t want to be alone anymore. He didn’t want to feel like he was the only one who wasn’t shutting down.

“What do you expect me to do?” Junmyeon stammered, his eyes brimming with fresh tears as they threatened to spill over onto his blushed cheeks. “What do you want from me?”

“Something other than this!” Kyungsoo shouted, gesturing emphatically towards the frosted glass bottle his hyung had licked dry. “I want you to act like a leader and stop wallowing in your own misery! We don’t get to cry, okay? Jongin gets to cry, Chanyeol-hyung gets to cry, Minseok-hyung and Sehun get to cry but we don’t! How do you not see that?”

There was silence.

Somewhere upstairs, the others were sleeping. Jongdae and Baekhyun were dead to the world, probably lying side by side as they tried to take comfort from each other’s body heat and just knowing they weren’t alone.

Just knowing they weren’t tied up in a basement somewhere with no hope of ever seeing their families again.

“Is that what you think of me?” Junmyeon finally spoke, eyes fixated on the table in front of him. “That I’m not a good leader?”

“No,” Kyungsoo forced out through gritted teeth, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You’re the best fucking leader we ever could have asked for which is why I don’t understand what the hell you’re doing! You know how to be a leader, hyung, so wake the fuck up and be a fucking leader!”

Another stretch of silence and neither of them were looking at each other. Neither of them wanted to see the expression that lay in the others’ eyes.

And then:

“Stop … St … Stop … Please, stop! Don’t! Stop! Please!”

Kyungsoo slid out of his chair, refusing to even glance at Junmyeon as he stormed from the room to deal with Jongin’s latest nightmare. At least it gave him an excuse to get out of that horribly uncomfortable situation.

He knew he’d been harsh. Too harsh. But he was hurting, too, and he felt like everyone was looking at him to procure some magical solution from thin air when he was still one of the youngest in their team.

All he’d wanted was to shock Junmyeon out of whatever daze was keeping him down and depressed.

He heard his leader ascending the stairs, footfalls heavy on the thin carpet, but he was too focused on guiding Jongin back from the brink of terror that had him tangling himself up in his blankets and almost tumbling off the couch to notice.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, combing Jongin’s sweat-soaked fringe out of his eyes as he gently coaxed him into lying back against the cushions. “Go back to sleep, Jongin. I’m right here.”

Jongin was gone in seconds, his fatigue getting the best of him, and only then did Kyungsoo feel the first tear sliding down his cheek.

He shouldn’t have said those things. They were all going through hell, they were all suffering and they were all terrified out of their minds, but screaming at each other was only going to make them feel a billion times worse.

It didn’t matter if Junmyeon couldn’t bring himself to be a leader because they should be helping him. They should be doing this together, hand in hand, side by side. There was no leader anymore. There was only one goal: survive.

Kyungsoo remained kneeling at Jongin’s side for at least another twenty minutes, his forehead pressed against the sofa cushions as he used his hand to silence his own sobs, before he finally gathered the strength to shuffle his way up the stairs and down the landing towards Junmyeon’s room.

He knocked once.

“Junmyeon-hyung?”

There was no reply. It was almost 2am and Junmyeon was pretty damn drunk but Kyungsoo knew him too well to believe that he was already asleep.

He knocked again.

“Junmyeon-hyung, I want to apologise.”

Nothing. Not even a peep. But he couldn’t be sulking. Junmyeon didn’t sulk. Ever. He was too good of a person for that kind of childish behaviour.

“Hyung, I’m coming in, okay?”

He pushed open the door, immediately registering that the main lights were off but the bedside lamp was on, illuminating a single corner of the room and casting eerie shadows across the opposite wall.

Junmyeon was on the bed, lying flat on his back with his hands resting on his stomach.

“Hyung? Are you asleep?”

Kyungsoo took a step forwards, frowning slightly as he caught sight of just how pale Junmyeon’s face was. Not even an hour ago, his cheeks were a rosy pink from all the alcohol in his system but now his lips were practically blue.

“Junmyeon-hyung?”

There was something on his chin. Something yellow and sticky and chunky, and as Kyungsoo got closer, he recognised the sour smell of vomit soaking into the bedsheets. Junmyeon had thrown up.

“Jesus, hyung,” he muttered, starting forwards and just standing over the motionless body for a few moments as he tried to figure out what to do.

He didn’t want to touch the puke, but at the same time, he’d heard the stories of people getting shitfaced drunk and then choking on their own bodily fluid as they slept, slipping away in the middle of the night while their families lay oblivious right next door.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he reached out to take a hold of Junmyeon’s shoulder, intending to roll him onto his side and manoeuvre his body into the recovery position.

And then he saw it.

He saw the orange bottle on the bedside cabinet, lying on its side with the white ridged cap discarded on the floor. He saw the emptiness, the barrenness, the complete lack of the tablets that were supposed to be stored inside.

And it clicked.

“Junmyeon?”

He grabbed the bottle, fumbling with it in his panic as he tried to find the label and scan it for the name of the drug. _Diazepam._ The anxiety medication Junmyeon had been prescribed for the panic attacks he’d been having even before this whole nightmare had started.

“Junmyeon, wake up!”

His hands leapt to his leader’s face, completely oblivious to the vomit that lathered the tips of his fingers as he gave Junmyeon a shake. A hard one. And then an even harder one.

“Junmyeon! Junmyeon, wake up! Junmyeon!”

There was nothing. Junmyeon’s eyes were cracked open but there was nothing underneath them. Just the whites. No pupil, no iris. No life.

“BAEKHYUN!” Kyungsoo screamed, tears streaming down his face and obstructing his vision as he slid his arms beneath Junmyeon’s shoulders and heaved him into a sitting position. “BAEKHYUN! JONGDAE! BAEKHYUN!”

Junmyeon’s head lolled forwards, chin hitting his chest, arms completely lax by his side. He was like a ragdoll, a puppet whose master had just sliced right through its strings and Kyungsoo knew what that meant but he wasn’t ready to accept it yet.

“BAEKHYUN! BAEKHYUN! BAEKHYUN, PLEASE! HELP ME!”

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening.

This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.

“Please help me …”  


	27. The Lights Went Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Yoon Jeonghan (SEVENTEEN)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Jaemin! My NCT Dream bias, you make me happy when no one else can with your gorgeous smile and your uncanny ability to make me laugh in any situation with that incredible comedic talent of yours. I love you so much, baby, and I hope you have the greatest day!

               He awoke to pain. Nothing new there. But this time, he also awoke to panic.

The tape was being torn from his mouth, which usually meant he was allowed to have a drink, but Chan was always – _always_ – careful.

The fingers were moving so fast, making quick work of ripping the adhesion from his face and hair, not even stopping when greasy blonde strands were painfully plucked from his scalp.

“I’m sorry … I’m sorry …” Chan muttered as a guttural groan bubbled up Jeonghan’s throat, a mix between pain and resentment. “I’m sorry, hyung. I know it hurts but just bear with me, okay?”

The gag was gone, completely, and Jeonghan licked his lips, running his sandpapery tongue over the parched slivers of whitened flesh in the hopes that he could provide them moisture that he didn’t have.

He waited for the water bottle to feed him those precious few droplets to soothe his scratching throat, but it never did. And now, even though he was in agony and couldn’t tell up from down, he knew something was different.

Something was happening.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Chan whispered from above him, voice trembling almost as badly as the hands that were scrabbling over the blindfold. “I think this is going to really hurt but I’ll be as quick as I can. I promise.”

Jeonghan didn’t even have time to process his maknae’s words before there was an awful tug on his head, so violent that he heard something pop in his neck, and he felt the duct tape unpeeling itself from his hair.

Round and round and round, and he would have cried out if he could find his voice but seeing as he hadn’t used it in over a week, he knew that wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon. He almost vomited, and then it only got worse.

The roll reached its last layer and he could hear Chan hissing curse words just seconds before his eyelids felt like they were being ripped from his head. The flaps of flesh lifted from their sockets, lashes stuck as the tape remained resolutely determined to blind him.

“I’m sorry … I know, hyung, I’m so sorry but it’s almost done now … I’m just going to rip it off in one go, okay?”

Jeonghan wasn’t even embarrassed at the whimper that exploded from his mouth as the last of the tape was finally removed.

He tried to open his eyes but he couldn’t see anything, his head burning in agony and his vision consisting of nothing but mismatched shadows.

“Okay,” Chan soothed, running his fingers through his hyung’s hair. “It’s over now. It’s okay. Open your eyes when you’re ready. I’m right here.”

“Wha … happ …?” was all Jeonghan could get out, words slurred and grating against his vocal cords as he practically choked them up.

“We’re escaping.”

No. No, no, no. They couldn’t. It wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t even open his fucking eyes so how the hell was he supposed to escape this hell hole guarded by men with guns and knives and cigarettes that burrowed into his flesh.

“Ngh …” he mumbled, trying to shake his head but quitting the attempt as soon as the invisible nails started burrowing into his skull. “Ple … Ngh … Chan …”

They were going to catch them. They were going to torture him. From what he’d heard, they weren’t above forcing Chan to break his bones. And then they were going to kill him.

This is how his story was going to end: a bloodied body floating facedown in a river with a bullet hole in his brain. And all because Chan thought he was stronger than he actually was.

“It’s okay,” the boy repeated, and if he could have moved his arms then Jeonghan would have punched him. Or throttled him. “Jungkook-hyung has a plan. It’s going to work, hyung. I promise you. I’m going to make it work.”

He couldn’t feel his fingers.

He couldn’t feel his fingers and it was the first time he’d realised that because it was the first time that the ropes on his wrists had been loosened. He could already envision what his hands looked like: purple spaghetti strands hanging from limp rubber gloves, no pulse, no circulation.

“Jesus, hyung, you’re bleeding.”

Now he could feel it. Now he could feel the dull throb creeping down his forearms and infecting his fingers with its painful poison, and the rivulets that were gliding over his palms were undoubtedly from the welts that had been carved into his skin by the merciless restraints.

“I’m sorry.”

Why was Chan still apologising? He shouldn’t be. He should be tying Jeonghan back up. Putting the tape back on. Hiding all signs of this suicide mission because if any of those men came into this room and saw them right now, they were going to die.

The ropes finally gave and Jeonghan’s arms flopped uselessly to his sides, causing him to slowly slide from his seat, unable to hold himself up or even throw out a hand to break his fall.

He was caught before he could hit the ground, the chair wobbling as its long-term occupant finally vacated his spot, and Jeonghan felt Chan’s legs positioning themselves either side of him so he could lean back against his maknae’s chest.

“Please …” he rasped, still keeping his eyes tightly closed for fear that he would try opening them only to realise he was permanently blind. “Please … Chan … They’ll kill me …”

Chan shushed him into silence and from the way his abdomen was spasming, Jeonghan could tell that he was crying but still trying so hard to conceal it.

Instead, he was focusing on taking his big brother’s hands in his own and trying to massage the feeling back into his fingers.

“Can’t run …” Jeonghan hacked up, breaths catching in his throat. “Can’t see … Can’t … escape …”

“I know.”

Jeonghan wanted to sob. Maybe he was already and just couldn’t feel it due to all the pain the rest of his body was in.

He couldn’t comprehend what the hell was going through Chan’s mind. If he understood Jeonghan’s condition then why … Just why?

“Sehun-hyung, can you help me?”

Footsteps approached and Jeonghan cracked his eyelids to try to make out who was walking towards them. Friend or foe. Captor or captive. The shadows were getting clearer but the edges were still blurred and any features were indistinguishable.

“I can’t carry him on my own.”

“Yeah. I got him.”

Gentle. That was the only word Jeonghan could use to describe the way Sehun gathered him in his arms and lifted him off the floor. Gentle. So, so gentle after all he’d been handled with for over a week was brutality and violence.

He didn’t know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t for Sehun to walk only three steps before he was setting his burden back down on the ground.

Unless they’d somehow procured a teleport, he doubted that was meant to be the escape.

“What’s happening?” he tried again, voice gaining strength with every second his tongue got used to no longer being confined to his mouth. “Tell me the … plan.”

It would have to be some plan if Jungkook thought it was going to get four nearly-dead people out of this situation.

He tried opening his eyes once more, and this time, Chan’s grime-coated and tear-soaked face smiled back at him from where he was crouching at his side.

He looked … tired. So, so tired.

Jeonghan would have taken all his pain if he could. He would have traded places in a heartbeat, but then Chan would be the one with the head injury, the cigarette burns on his collarbones and every last symptom of starvation.

He wouldn’t wish that upon his worst enemy.

“You’re going to stay here,” Chan whispered, taking Jeonghan’s hand and running his thumb back and forth over the papery skin. “You, Minseok, Yoongi and Yuta. You’re going to stay here.”

His head weighed more than his entire body but he still managed to roll it to the side and make out the three bodies that were lying beside him. There seemed to be blood everywhere and not a single one of them was conscious but he could hear them breathing so at least they were alive.

“You’re leaving us here?”

He saw Donghyuck laying his head on Yuta’s chest, tears waterfalling over the bridge of his nose to perforate the thin material of his hyung’s T-Shirt. He saw Jungkook cradling Yoongi’s head in his lap, raking his fingers through the mop of blackened hair as he whispered words Jeonghan couldn’t hear.

And he saw Sehun trying to put Minseok in the recovery position as gently as possible, seemingly terrified of breaking something just by touching the whispery body that looked as though it had been beaten black and blue.

And he realised that maybe leaving them behind was for the best.

They were almost gone anyway. They probably weren’t going to make it to a hospital even if they managed to get past all those men and find a phone to call the police. Abandoning them here to die in their sleep was Chan, Sehun, Jungkook and Donghyuck’s best chance of escape.

“I am, yeah,” Chan confirmed, drawing Jeonghan’s attention back to him and the tears that were streaming from his eyes like a faucet. “I am, hyung, and I don’t want to. I promise I don’t want to but it’s the only way.”

He shouldn’t feel hurt. He shouldn’t feel betrayed. He should show that he understood. He should tell Chan that it was okay. That he should run as fast as he could and never look back and live his life to the full.

But he opened his mouth and no sound came out. He blinked and immediately started to cry.

Because Chan was leaving him to die here.

“Jungkook-hyung and Sehun-hyung are going to stay with you.”

Oh. Oh?

“They’re going to protect you, hyung,” Chan promised, tightening his grip on Jeonghan’s hand as his crying reached a point of near hysteria. “They’re going to do everything they can to keep those bastards away from you for as long as possible.”

But he didn’t understand. Chan had literally just admitted that he was going to abandon him. So what was he doing? Where was Donghyuck’s part in all of this? Why did Sehun and Jungkook think they were strong enough to protect all four of them?

“Donghyuck and I are going to run.”

They would get shot. They would get lost. Hit by a car. Caught. Murdered. Buried in the ground where no one would ever find them. They were never going to get away and thinking that they could was just arrogant stupidity.

“We’re going to get help and we’re going to bring them back here, okay, hyung? We’ll get the police and the paramedics and we’ll come back for you. I swear, hyung, I am coming back for you. Do you believe me? Do you believe me, hyung? You know I wouldn’t leave you here, right? You believe me, don’t you?”

He was desperate, Jeonghan realised. He was terrified and he was devastated and he was doing what he needed in order to survive. And he was kneeling beside his big brother with his vision obscured by tears, begging for forgiveness.

He must know, somewhere deep down, that it didn’t matter how fast he ran. It didn’t matter if he escaped. It didn’t matter if he brought the police back because there was absolutely no way Sehun and Jungkook could hold their abductors off for long enough.

They would be defeated. They would be overpowered. And once those monsters realised that two of their captives had slipped through their fingers, they weren’t going to need Yuta and Jeonghan anymore.

Chan must know that. He must know.

But he was dying, too. Maybe not physically but emotionally. He was dying.

“I believe you, Chan.”

This was the last time they were ever going to see each other. So many things needed to be said. So many things needed to be done. Apologies, regrets, confessions, words of comfort. So many things … So why couldn’t he think of a single one?

“It’s not your fault.”

It was the best he could do. Unconsciousness was already creeping in, clouding the corners of his newly acquired vision, and he could feel himself falling down and down and down.

At least he wasn’t going to die in that chair.

“It’s not your fault, Chan. Remember that, yeah?”

Chan nodded, supressing a sob as he stooped low and brushed his lips against Jeonghan’s forehead. He definitely knew this was goodbye. There was no way he didn’t.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either.”

Jeonghan was floating now and he just let it happen. He wondered if his heart would stop as he slept so he would never feel the pain those people were going to inflict upon him. He could only hope Chan wouldn’t tell the rest of his group how weak he’d been.

How he’d died in the corner of a basement, not even strong enough to raise his head.  

“Chan,” somebody whispered. Jungkook? Maybe Sehun. “We should do it now.”

Wood met concrete. Somebody grunted. Something was dragged across the floor. Chan kissed Jeonghan one more time and then the lights went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I feel like this chapter is not up to par with my usual standards but I'm going into hospital for a minor operation and I wanted to get this out before then so please forgive the sloppy writing


	28. Just Unbearable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Park Chanyeol (EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this chapter is shorter than the others but I'm still feeling a little tired. I will try very hard to get a longer one out in the next few days.  
> Thank you guys for all the well wishes. My surgery was very successful and I'm laid up at home with a tub of ice cream and a tonne of dramas to keep myself occupied :)

            The moment the nurse wheeled Chanyeol out into the hospital garden, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

For almost two weeks, he’d been confined to a bed, broken ribs shifting uncomfortably beneath his skin every time he moved, and the scar from his surgery stinging with every puff of air that wafted past it. It was torture.

All he knew were grungy hospital meals, popping pills, having his blood pressure taken every two hours and visits from his members, but recently, the only people who had dipped in to see him had been Yixing and Baekhyun.

He knew what the others were doing but he couldn’t deny the fact that it hurt to feel so ignored.

“Thank you,” he muttered and the nurse squeezed his shoulder as she left him there, sitting in that godawful chair on the grass as he watched the ducks bobbing about on the lake.

He let his eyes wander, taking in the clusters of daisies littering the ground, the bluebells sprouting beneath the old willow tree that bowed solemnly over the lake’s glassy surface, its leafy tendrils sending ripples dancing through the water every time the breeze blew.

It was a beautiful day. It had been a beautiful week. Almost like God was taunting them with the knowledge that they could enjoy it while Sehun and Minseok and all the others were confined to the darkness, unable to endure anything but pain, loneliness and fear.

It was unbearable.

There was no other word for it.

Just … Unbearable.

He spotted a familiar set of ridiculously broad shoulders over the top of a bench on his left and wheeled himself over, grunting slightly at the effort of using a pair of arms that hadn’t so much as lifted a water bottle in the last two weeks.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on bedrest?” Seokjin spoke in a monotone as Chanyeol finally pulled his chair up beside him. “Something about major internal bleeding?”

“Look who’s talking,” Chanyeol wheezed back, breathless from the exertion that short journey had taken. “I’m not the one who got stabbed.”

“No, just hit by a car.”

Chanyeol huffed in amusement and Seokjin gave a soft chuckle. They had both always used humour as a means to escape their hardships and now it was one of the only things keeping them afloat when the rest of the world was intent on shutting them in the dark.

He glanced back at his new companion and realised for the first time that he wasn’t alone. Namjoon was lying sideways on the bench, his feet propped up on the end and his head in Seokjin’s lap as the older boy absently raked his fingers through the unwashed hair.

“He’s tired,” Seokjin explained as he noticed the staring. “He doesn’t do a lot of sleeping these days.”  

Chanyeol hummed in understanding, watching with a kind of awe as Seokjin pulled his own blanket off his lap and layered it on top of his leader just when the wind started picking up. He almost wished that he had someone to take care of rather than everybody else taking care of him.

“I heard,” Seokjin whispered, dropping his gaze to Namjoon as though he didn’t want to make eye contact during this particular conversation. “About Junmyeon.”

Chanyeol tensed slightly, his jaw bulging as he clenched his teeth. Junmyeon was not exactly a prime topic for him right now and one of the last things he wanted to do was discuss what had happened.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” he answered tersely, pointedly staring out over the lake in the hopes it would give the indication that he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Is he …” Seokjin continued, seemingly unable to know when to quit. “Is he doing okay?”

“Coma,” Chanyeol spat out, slightly more violently than he’d intended and he actually felt Seokjin flinch beside him, something that only made him feel guiltier than he already did.

Not only had he been unable to save Minseok and Sehun when they were taken but he’d failed to take any of the weight from Junmyeon’s shoulders. He’d watched him struggle, he’d watched him drown and he’d done nothing.  

“I’m sorry,” he muttered shamefully, chin dropping to his chest as he reached up to paw at the tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just … stressed.”

“I know,” Seokjin reassured him. “Me, too. I … I’m sorry for prying, but I … I wondered if there were any warning signs? I know you probably don’t want to think about it but … Namjoon …”

He gestured pathetically at the boy sleeping in his lap and Chanyeol understood even if he didn’t particularly enjoy the interrogation. Seokjin was worried about Namjoon making the same decision Junmyeon had made. He wanted to know if there was any chance he would lose his leader to an overdose just like Chanyeol almost had.

“There wasn’t really much,” he whispered, wanting to soothe Seokjin’s mind more than he wanted to protect his own fragility. “I … I don’t think there was anything we could have done to …”

“No,” Seokjin gasped out, his hand leaping to Chanyeol’s immediately. “I wasn’t suggesting that you missed anything. I’m sorry if it came out like that but what Junmyeon did wasn’t your fault, Chanyeol. I promise you it wasn’t.”

He must have been able to read his mind. Maybe it was the power of a hyung. But without another word, Chanyeol’s floodgates opened and he was crying like a baby.

“He tried to kill himself,” he choked, too devastated to even care how embarrassed he was at spilling his feelings so easily in front of somebody he barely knew. “Minseok-hyung and Sehun could be dead or dying and he just tried to kill himself.”

He’d left them, is what he’d wanted to say. He’d just decided to opt out and abandon the rest of his group to drown by themselves as they desperately tried to keep each other afloat while every one of them slowly sank deeper and deeper.

Junmyeon had tried to take the coward’s way out, and even though Chanyeol hated himself for it, he was angry. Angry at his hyung. So, so angry. And so, so afraid.

“Chanyeol, he was drunk,” Seokjin sighed as he gave the sobbing boy’s hand a tight squeeze and Chanyeol noticed there was still a cannula embedded in his forearm. “He probably didn’t realise what he was doing. I know I don’t know him that well but I’m sure Junmyeon would never knowingly try to commit suicide. Not when the rest of you are suffering already.”

Chanyeol sniffed, nodding slightly as he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, as though he were trying to hide from the world and the cruelty it seemed determined to inflict upon him.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew that Junmyeon hadn’t been in his right mind when he’d swallowed those pills and the fact that Kyungsoo had shut himself in his room and refused to eat or speak only confirmed everybody’s assumptions that the two of them had some kind of fight before it all went down.

“Is that what everyone’s saying then?” Chanyeol finally ground out, accepting the tissues Seokjin handed him and mopping at his leaking face. “That he attempted suicide? Does everybody know?”

Seokjin didn’t answer. Maybe he knew that it wasn’t going to do the younger boy any good. Instead, he gave Chanyeol’s hand another strong squeeze as he turned to gaze upon the lake, watching as a duck upended itself in search for pond weed.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said emotionlessly. “I don’t know when, I don’t know how but at some point, it is going to be okay.”

Chanyeol had no idea how he could say such a thing. Junmyeon could die. Junmyeon could have brain damage. Kyungsoo might never recover from the guilt he didn’t deserve to feel. Minseok and Sehun could die. Minseok and Sehun could come back but be so damaged and traumatised that they were never even remotely similar to what they’d been before all of this.

There was no way Seokjin could promise they would be okay when so, so many things could and had already gone wrong. But Chanyeol didn’t have the energy to argue. So he just sat there and nodded like the soulless shadow he’d become.

Namjoon gave a groggy moan as he shifted his head slightly on Seokjin’s thigh before he seemed to break from the folds of sleep with a violent jerk, body shooting upwards into a sitting position and eyes snapping from side to side.

“Why did you let me fall asleep?” he hissed at Seokjin who just stared back at him with raised eyebrows and an unimpressed look on his face. “And why the fuck would you give me your blanket, hyung? You’re going to get cold.”

He tore the baby blue comforter from his own lap and draped it over Seokjin’s, looking as if he was about ready to have a full-on meltdown, and not even acknowledging Chanyeol’s presence beside him.

“How long was I out?” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair and rolling off the bench to formulate his body in a somewhat vertical position. “Did anyone call? Hobi? Jimin? Tae? Sejin-hyung?”

“Nobody called,” Seokjin droned, glancing to Chanyeol and showing him a small, sad smile. “You fell asleep and I let you because you’ll get sick if you keep pushing yourself like this, Namjoon.”

Chanyeol thought of Junmyeon. He looked away.

“Come on,” Namjoon ordered, letting out a frustrated sigh through his nose as he retrieved Seokjin’s wheelchair from the other end of the bench and brought it closer. “You need to get back inside before you catch pneumonia.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes but accepted the arm slipping around his waist anyway, pushing up with his legs and grunting slightly as Namjoon helped transfer him into the metal contraption with wheels and handles and those stupid cradles for your feet.

“I’ll see you later, Chanyeol,” he said and Chanyeol inclined his head in a mixture of gratitude and acknowledgement.

“Oh, hi, Chanyeol.”

That was all he got from Namjoon before the two of them were gone, Seokjin’s wheelchair squeaking slightly as the grass sloped upwards on the way back to the hospital, and Chanyeol was left alone.

Again.

Alone with nothing to think about except his leader clinging to life in the ICU and his two best friends locked in some basement with an unreachable ransom hovering over their heads.

Alone.

Just like always.


	29. There Was Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Chan (Dino of SEVENTEEN)

              Chan knew it wasn’t going to work. It’s not like they were delusional. It’s not like they truly believed Jungkook and Sehun could hold those guys off long enough for him and Donghyuck to escape, find help and come back.

It’s not like they truly believed they could escape at all.

But as Chan watched Jeonghan lose consciousness before he forced himself to step aside and allow Jungkook and Sehun to heave the huge wooden wine rack across the room, effectively sealing off the corner of the basement where they’d laid the hyungs, he realised there was no other option.

Either they stayed and allowed Tattoo to keep torturing them until they died or they threw caution to the winds and risked their lives even though the chance of success was less than wafer thin.

“Chan,” Jungkook whispered and Chan finally raised his head from where he had it cradled in his hands. “You’ve got to try.”

“I know.”

The four of them – him, Jungkook, Sehun and Donghyuck – were sitting at the top of the stairs, just waiting and waiting and waiting for Beanie to come with their food. They had considered hammering on the door until somebody threw it open but seeing as the last time they’d done that, Tattoo had appeared with a gun, they had decided against it.

“I know …”

He looked at Jungkook’s muscles straining against his T-Shirt and envisioned him beating their abductors into the ground. Knocking them down, pinning them there, keeping them as far away from Jeonghan as he possibly could.

It would never be enough. It _could_ never be enough to counteract the guilt Chan felt at leaving his hyung in this basement with the people who had refused to give him even a morsel of food in nearly two weeks.

“He’s coming.”

Donghyuck’s hiss of terror cut through the air like a whip crack and Chan felt his breath catch in his throat and his heart skip a beat and his legs start trembling like they were being zapped with electricity.

This was it.

He could hear it now. The footsteps on the other side of the door.

Sehun and Jungkook were on their feet immediately, pushing the younger two out of the way as they turned to face the one barrier between them and freedom. Or death.

“Whatever you do,” Sehun shot over his shoulder. “Do not look back.”

They heard the lock slide back and the door opened … and everything went to shit.

Beanie barely had the chance to register the faces waiting for him before his shoulders were seized and he was wrenched forwards. Chan threw out an arm, pinning Donghyuck against the wall as that huge beast of a man went tumbling past them, over and over and over and over until he came to a thud at the bottom of the stairs.

And then he ran.

He could feel Donghyuck right behind him but, obedient to Sehun’s last words, he didn’t look back as he shot down the hallway, the front door standing there, directly ahead, their last hurdle.

Somebody lunged at him from the side but he saw Jungkook tackle them out of the corner of his eye and he kept running.

It was night time, or at least late evening. He could tell from the inky blackness of the sky and that was probably the reason why there were so few of their abductors on watch. There were grunts and yells and curses from behind him as Sehun and Jungkook did everything they could to keep their captors at bay and Chan blocked it out.

He didn’t want to be able to hear a gunshot or a scream of pain or the sickening thud of a skull meeting the floor and bones breaking beneath a boot.

The door was under his fingers and it wasn’t locked, making it far too easy for Chan to hurl it open and sprint out into the freezing night air.

Donghyuck was gasping for breath behind him. Somebody was bellowing his name from back inside the house. His bare feet were sliced open on the gravel he scrambled over. He was waiting for the bullet to pierce his back or the car to hit him at full speed or the body to slam into him and bring him down to the ground.

But none of those things ever came.

And he ran.

It was dark. There were a cluster of trees to the left at the bottom of a steep grassy incline and they used both to their advantage.

Unable to call out for fear that he would alert whoever was pursuing him to his position, he relied solely on Donghyuck following him blindly as he pelted into the thicket of greenery, silently pleading with a God who had already forsaken him that the thick trunks and canopy of leaves would conceal them from scrutinising eyes.

Don’t look back. Keep running. Don’t you dare stop, not for anything.

This was the most intense terror he had ever felt and yet it was also the fiercest determination, too. This was the only way to save Jeonghan. And Yoongi. And Yuta. And Minseok. And Jungkook. And Sehun. This was the escape that could not fail.

Footsteps were on his tail, short sharp gasps for air telling him that Donghyuck was keeping up and Chan tried not to think about what was happening back in that house right now.

Had Jungkook and Sehun already been overpowered? Were those monsters already sending out the search parties? Did they have motorbikes that could penetrate the forest faster than cars could? Had they already put a bullet through his hyung’s skull?

Had he just signed Jeonghan’s death warrant?

_“It’s not your fault.”_

His big brother’s final message before his eyes slid closed and his head lolled gently to the side. He must have been in so much pain, so tired, so hungry and so desperate. And yet the one thing on his mind was comforting his dongsaeng.

Chan could only hope to be half the man Yoon Jeonghan was.

Or had been.

He shook himself, forcing the image from his mind. He kept running. A lightning-fast glance thrown over his shoulder told him that Donghyuck was still there. He could barely see the kid’s eyes in the darkness but he knew he was terrified.

His feet were pierced by thorns and thistles. His toes were bleeding, one of them was probably already broken. Adrenaline was all that kept him going. Adrenaline and desperation. Adrenaline and desperation and fear.

He couldn’t hear anybody following them but his blood was rushing in his ears and his breaths were harsh and wheezing and all of it drowned out whatever was going on around him. They could be right behind him for all he knew.

He wondered if they would shoot on sight. Shoot to kill? Or shoot to cripple so that they could drag him back to that basement and force him to watch as they eviscerated his best friend?

And then it happened: the one thing that you could always rely on in an escape scene. The most cliched, infuriating, scream-inducing thing that they should have foreseen when they decided to go charging into the forest without any shoes on.

Chan stepped in a rabbit hole.

He went down hard, clapping a hand over his mouth to smother the screech of pain threatening to bubble up his throat, and he flipped onto his back to survey the damage.

“Oh, shit …”

Tears of both agony and frustration burned his eyes as he caught a glimpse of his ankle twisted in the wrong direction, bruising already blossoming over the misshapen bones. There was absolutely no way he was doing any running on that.

“Get up!” Donghyuck pleaded, skidding to a stop beside his fallen hyung and seizing his arm, trying to pull him to his feet. “Get up, Chan! Come on!”

And Chan tried. He really, really tried. But he didn’t even make it a step before he was crumpling back into the rotting leaves with a barely-suppressed whimper of agony.

“Chan!” Donghyuck was sobbing, tugging on his elbow as though trying to drag him over the ground. “Get up! Please! Come on!”

“I can’t,” Chan whispered, wrenching his arm from Donghyuck’s grasp and screwing up his tear-soaked face. “I can’t …”

“I’ll carry you,” Donghyuck gasped out as he turned around and dropped to his knees, readying himself to take Chan’s weight on his back. “Come on, Chan. Please!”

“Donghyuck, listen to me …”

“No! Get on my back! I’ll carry you! Come on!”

“Donghyuck …”

There wasn’t time for this. Tattoo’s men could be on them at any second and their friends could be dying and there just wasn’t time.

“Donghyuck, you have to go now!”

Donghyuck spun around on his knees, tears oozing down his cheeks as he shook his head frantically from side to side.

“This is not a movie, hyung!” he sobbed. “This is not where you play the hero!”

“Donghyuck!” Chan hissed for the umpteenth time, lunging forwards and latching the strongest grip he could muster onto Donghyuck’s wrists. “Whatever happens here, Jeonghan-hyung and Yuta get hurt! But if we get caught then it’s all for nothing! You have to go right now!”

Donghyuck let out a ragged, rasping choke of terror, still shaking his head and trying to heave Chan upright.

“Donghyuck, fucking go! Please!”

He gave him a shove so strong that it sent the kid thudding backwards onto his ass, still sobbing, still shaking his head but finally – _finally –_ understanding that there really was no other way.

“Go. Now,” Chan enunciated one last time, breathing a sigh of both relief and misery when Donghyuck scrambled to his feet and started sprinting like his life depended on it.

Because, of course, it did.

And Chan was left all alone in the forest, woods – whatever the correct name for this clump of trees was – with a broken ankle and absolutely nothing to protect himself from the men that were searching for him at this very moment.

He crawled under a nearby bush, lying in the dirt on his stomach and biting down on his arm to keep himself from crying too loudly. Donghyuck’s footsteps had long since died away and he had never felt more afraid and alone and in agony.

And so he prayed for the first time in his life, whispering the words under his breath so that, if anybody came stomping past him, they wouldn’t hear his call to the god he wasn’t sure had ever been listening.

“I don’t really believe in you,” he whimpered. “I never have and, in light of recent events, I don’t think I ever really will but if you do exist and you give even the slightest fuck about me or anyone else I care about then please … _please, please, please …_ protect Donghyuck. Let him escape. Let him find someone who can help us. Let him be safe and let him be okay and let him bring the police here so we can finally go home.”

He wiped at the tears on his face with the collar of his shirt and winced when his injured ankle shifted excruciatingly against the ground. He could practically feel the broken bones grating against each other. It was unbearable.

Only then did he understand the smallest fraction of the pain Jeonghan was in.

Or had been in.

“I don’t want to die,” he whispered into the silence. “But if I have to then please make it quick. I don’t want it to hurt. And I don’t want it to be filmed either. I don’t want my hyungs to see it. Please … God … Please, just make it quick.”

It was getting cold. He was shivering. He was in pain. He was crying and he was scared and he wanted Soonyoung to give him a hug. Right now. Right here, right now in his own bedroom where he was safe and loved and protected.

Light.

There was light.

A thin strip of illumination searching the ground just inches from his face and he shrank back into the shadows, clamping his lips shut and holding his breath in his desperation to stay as silent as possible.

They were coming for him.

They were already here.

Jungkook and Sehun had failed.

It was only one pair of footsteps. One man. He could hear the growling breaths puffing out of the big broad chest, the leaves crunching beneath the weight, the torch beam scanning the undergrowth for any sign of the missing captives.

And then Chan thought of something.

If he stayed quiet, there was a chance this man wouldn’t see him. And so he would keep looking, he would keep trudging through the trees and he might find Donghyuck. And if he found Donghyuck then Jeonghan would die in vain.

Chan didn’t give himself a chance to think before he was lunging forwards, clamping his fingers down on the ankle that landed in front of him and pulling with all his might.

There was a startled shout and then the body hit the ground and Chan knew it was over even before he felt the fist in his face and the dirt against his cheek and the arms that tightened around his waist, heaving him up into the air and throwing him over his captor’s shoulder.

“You’re so fucking lucky I’m not allowed to hurt you.”

That was the last thing he heard before he passed out, arms swinging and head hanging as Muscles carried him back up to the house where Jeonghan was waiting to be held against his maknae’s chest so that he wouldn’t have to die alone.  


	30. Ever So Slightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Donghae (SUPER JUNIOR)

              It hadn’t been leaked to the public yet. Everybody – idols, managers, police officers – believed that it would be better kept a secret. And that was why Donghae didn’t know. That was why, when the call came at 5:00am, it felt like being hit by a train.

He rolled over in bed, groaning in protest as the vibrations from his phone sent the entire desk humming loudly, and grabbed for the device. He slid the white orb towards the little green picture and pressed the screen to his ear, eyes still half-closed.

“’lo?”

“Donghae-hyung?”

He frowned, twisting his face as though contorting his muscles would somehow help him figure out whose voice he was hearing on the other end of the line.

“Who ‘dis?” he grunted, prying his eyes fully open and digging the dust from the corners of his lids. “D’you know wha’ time ‘tis?”

“I know,” came the whisper from the speakers, timid and frightened and cracking slightly with some emotion Donghae was too groggy to identify. “I’m sorry, hyung, but there’s something that you need to know.”

By now, it was dawning on him that maybe – just maybe – this was serious. He pushed himself up from the mattress and reached over to flick on the bedside lamp, squinting as the sudden illumination attacked his corneas.

“Jeno?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He was crying, Donghae realised as he kicked off the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, already readying himself to throw on some clothes and sprint over to the NCT dorm. Jeno was crying at five in the morning and that meant something was very, very wrong.

“What’s happened? Are you okay?”

Why hadn’t he called Taeyong? Taeyong would be closer and much more equipped to help a child in tears, but for some reason, this child had called him. Donghae. Who was probably a good twenty miles or so away.

“Can you come over?”

Now he was wide awake.

“Jeno, tell me what’s going on? Is Taeyong there? Can I speak to him?”

“He’s sleeping,” came Jeno’s soft whimper, and Donghae could practically see that little tear-soaked face looming out of the darkness as he curled up in his bed with the phone plastered to his ear. “Please, hyung, you have to come over.”

Donghae was already tugging on his sweats, pinning the mobile between his ear and his shoulder. “Tell me why, Jeno.”

“Yuta-hyung and Donghyuck were kidnapped. Minseok-hyung and Sehun-hyung, too. And a couple of others from BTS and Seventeen. Jongin-hyung’s leg is shattered, Chanyeol-hyung’s still in the hospital, Junmyeon-hyung tried to kill himself a few days ago, I think Taeyong-hyung might do the same, and Jisung was supposed to help get everyone back but it failed and now I think they might die and there’s absolutely nothing I can do.”

Donghae stood there in the middle of his poorly-lit bedroom, sweats only half on, still shirtless, clutching his phone and trying his damn hardest to process what the hell Jeno had just sobbed into the phone. The kid’s words were barely coherent by the end but the sentiment was clear: _help._

“Jeno,” he croaked pathetically. “I …”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to react. Minseok, Sehun, Yuta and Donghyuck were gone. And others, too. From BTS? Seventeen? And Junmyeon had tried to kill himself? And Chanyeol and Jongin had been hurt, too? And something was wrong with Taeyong as well?

There was too much information too fast and everything was spiralling inside his head and he needed to take a breath and be calm for this child in hysterics but he wasn’t sure he could because everything was fine just a few seconds ago and now it was not.

“You need to come,” Jeno pleaded. “You need to do something. Please, hyung … Please …”

It took one minute. That was all. One minute before Donghae had pulled on his shirt and shoes and hoodie and was already out his front door, still gripping the phone like a lifeline. There was absolutely no way he was going to hang up.

“I’m coming, Jeno,” he promised as he leapt into his car and turned the key in the ignition. “Where are you? Are you at the dorm?”

“No …”

“Then where are you?”

There was a pause. There would have been silence if it weren’t for Jeno’s painfully hitched breaths and barely-suppressed sobs. And then the response that came was so quiet Donghae barely heard it.

“Don’t come here.”

Donghae slammed his foot on the break just moments before he pulled out onto the freeway, “What?”

“Don’t come here, hyung. I’m not the one who needs you most right now.”

Donghae felt like tearing his hair out. He understood that Jeno was clearly traumatised and in need of serious comfort but why couldn’t the kid just give him a straight answer? It was five in the morning, he was freezing his ass off and panicking like crazy at the thought of what was happening to his juniors, and now Jeno was depriving him of the information he needed to actually _do_ something.

“Then where am I going, Jeno?”

“Go to the hospital. Junmyeon-hyung … You need to go and see Junmyeon-hyung.”

Taking orders from a nineteen-year-old was not something Donghae ever thought he would be doing but here he was, agreeing to a teenager’s command as he pressed the acceleration pedal into the ground and steered the car in the direction of the hospital.

Junmyeon. Junmyeon had tried to kill himself. Why would he do that? That just … That just wasn’t him. He wasn’t that kind of person. But who was Donghae to judge? He wasn’t in their position. He didn’t understand what they felt right now, knowing their friends were being held against their will for a ransom that wasn’t going to be paid.

Jeno hadn’t called him so there would be one more person to break down.

The kid hung up a moment later, snivelling some apology about waking his senior at such a ridiculous hour in the morning, and Donghae wished he could dial Taeyong’s number and ensure that Jeno was properly looked after but he was too busy trying not to crash the car in his panic to get to the hospital as soon as possible.

Junmyeon had tried to kill himself.

That was the only thing he could think of as he stared at the pale green door in between the whitewashed walls.

Junmyeon. That boy he’d known for what felt like forever had tried to take away his own life when his members needed him more than they’d ever needed him before.

He pushed aside those thoughts and then he opened the door.

Junmyeon occupied the only bed, a blanket pulled up to his waist, leaving his chest bare and exposed. There was a thick plastic tube protruding from his mouth, kept in place by a strip of tape plastered across his cheeks and his eyes were closed, his skin was greyish.

The only sign that he was even alive was the slow, steady beat from the heart monitor beside his bed.

“Hyung?” Kyungsoo croaked, raising his head from where it had lain on his folded arms, propped up on the mattress. “What are you doing here?”

“Jeno called,” Donghae muttered absently as he approached and pulled up a chair. “He said I needed to be here.”

Kyungsoo just nodded, the bags under his eyes weighing his entire face down and the colourless aspect of his lips seeming to sap all the life from his body. He looked almost as dead as Junmyeon.

“Holy shit …” He didn’t know what else to say. “Kyungsoo, what … what happened?”

He half expected Kyungsoo to start crying, but he didn’t. He just sat. Sat and stared at his leader’s lifeless face. Sat and clung to his leader’s lifeless hand. Just sat. With his lifeless leader.

“I did this,” he finally whispered without raising his head. “This is my fault.”

Donghae didn’t speak. He didn’t want to push. He waited for the moment when Kyungsoo was ready – if that moment ever came – to talk about how this could possibly be his fault when he was just as helpless and blameless as the rest of them.

“I told him he wasn’t being a good leader. I pushed him to this.”

“Kyungsoo …” Donghae rasped out, his voice constricted from all the saliva clogging up his throat. “I have no idea what’s happened or why, but I’m positive that if Junmyeon could talk … He’d tell you that none of this is your fault. That he made his own decision in the heat of the moment and he probably regretted it as soon as he realised what he’d done.”

He hoped Junmyeon regretted it. Because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t fight. He would just let go and drift away and that was not something that was allowed to happen right now.  

“He was right.”

“What?”

“He was right,” Kyungsoo whispered. “To take the easy way out, I mean. He was right.”

“No …” Donghae choked, shuffling right to the edge of his seat and reaching across Junmyeon’s body to take Kyungsoo’s hand. “No, Kyungsoo. No. You can’t think like that.”

“Why not?” Kyungsoo hissed, finally raising his head and glaring at his senior with so much pain and resentment and helplessness that Donghae felt like shrivelling up right there and then. “You haven’t seen the videos, hyung. Sehun screaming, Donghyuck smashing Yuta’s hand with a hammer … These people are never letting them go. So if Junmyeon can leave then why can’t I?”

Donghae should say something. He should say something right now to convince this boy that what he was saying was just the voice of panic in his head. He didn’t really mean any of it. He was just scared and hurting and lashing out because he didn’t know what else he could do.

“What about Jongin?” Donghae asked. “He’s injured too, right? His leg. He probably won’t dance again for months, if not years. How do you think he’s going to feel if he loses you, Junmyeon, Sehun and Minseok? How do you think he’s going to hang on?”

Now Kyungsoo was crying, his fingers wrapped around his leader’s hand like a vice as he stared down at his lap, tears slowly dripping onto his jeans.

“And Taeyong. Taeyong’s flailing right now. Jeno told me he’s barely keeping himself sane. He was looking to Junmyeon to show him how to be a leader in a time like this. What’s going to happen to him if one more of his seniors decide to opt out and show him that life isn’t worth living, not even for the rest of his group?”

He had no idea where the words were coming from but they seemed to be exactly what Kyungsoo needed to hear if the way he was sobbing softly was anything to go by. Donghae could only hope his impromptu message was heaving his dongsaeng out of that dark, black chasm.

Only then did he realise that Jeno hadn’t sent him here for Junmyeon. He’d sent him here for Kyungsoo.

“And what if Minseok and Sehun come back? What if they come back and realise that two of their friends didn’t have faith in them? Didn’t believe they were strong enough to make it? They are going to need all the support in the world to get them through the trauma that they’re undoubtedly going to have, and if you’re gone then you’re just leaving that task to the others. It’s selfish, Kyungsoo. It’s so selfish and you do not get to do that. Do you understand me?”

The reaction he got was not one he’d been expecting, but it only took him a few moments before he realised why Kyungsoo’s eyes suddenly widened to the size of dinner plates and he lunged towards the call button on the wall, slamming his palm into it with all his might.

Donghae looked down and met Junmyeon’s eye and for a few seconds, they just stared at each other before Kyungsoo was on his feet, leaning over the bed and taking his leader’s face in his hands, calling out to him through the tears.

“Hyung? Hyung, can you hear me? Junmyeon-hyung? It’s Kyungsoo. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I said. I’m so sorry …”

Junmyeon was gaping up at him, eyes mere slits as he remained too weak to open them fully, and Donghae wondered if he could even understand what was going on around him before he saw the boy’s fingers tighten their grip on Kyungsoo’s hand.

Ever so slightly.


	31. Tough Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Jeon Jungkook (BTS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Jungkookie! I swear I love you, even though I'm kind of torturing you in this story! Anyway, have a great day, baby boy of mine!

           They’d taken the chairs that the hyungs had been tied to for almost a fortnight and slammed them into the ground until the legs broke off with a splintering of wood shavings. And those were their weapons: a couple of sticks against guns and knives.

Jungkook knew it wasn’t much. But it was better than nothing. And he didn’t really know what it was but something inside of him told him that he was going to be alright. That he would remain unhurt because these people hadn’t so much as breathed on him so far.  

That feeling inside told him that they were saving him for something. Him and Sehun and Chan and Donghyuck. They had a plan for them and that plan included keeping them unharmed.

But that wasn’t what terrified Jungkook to his very core. It was the fact that Yoongi was barely breathing in that basement down below, unconscious, bloodied and burned while Jungkook was up here, beating Jacket with a chair leg.

He was completely defenceless and if something didn’t happen very soon then he was going to die, along with the other three by his side, and that was what gave Jungkook the strength he needed to fight like he wasn’t afraid of death.

The front door was still gaping open, Chan and Donghyuck’s figures long since disappeared into the darkness, and Jungkook gave Jacket one final – brutal – bashing before he abandoned the bruised body and positioned himself over the doormat.

He couldn’t let any of these monsters outside. He couldn’t let them catch Chan and Donghyuck.

That was his job: to give his friends as much time as possible. They had trusted him with protecting their hyungs until they came back with the police and as long as he remained in control, that was exactly what he was doing.

“You bastard!” Jacket was screaming from where he knelt on the floor, clutching at his shattered ribs with his face already swelling to twice its size. “You’re gonna pay for this!”

Jungkook ignored him. He was too incapacitated to do much anyway and so he focused his attention on Muscles’ terrifyingly gigantic figure advancing on him with his lips curled in a snarl.

He raised the chair leg, trying to school his expression into something that didn’t portray just how afraid he was, and the response from his captor was a cold, bitter laugh.

“Oh, kid,” he chuckled, but there was no amusement in his words. “You are so going to regret this.”

“Maybe …” Jungkook whispered under his breath before he gritted his teeth and lunged forwards, swinging his makeshift club towards that massive torso with every ounce of strength in his body.

Muscles’ tree-branch-like arm parried the blow with ease but a grunt of pain bubbled up from his throat all the same and it only spurred Jungkook on, reminding him that, no matter how huge this man was, he was only human. He could bleed and he could die.

Somewhere behind him, Sehun was guarding the door to the basement, resolutely refusing to move for fear that somebody would slip past him and attack the hyungs, but Jungkook didn’t have time to worry about him right now.

The chair leg was knocked out of his grasp as easily as a rattle could be snatched from a baby but he barely faltered. His fist landed a punch on Muscles’ jaw and the brute staggered backwards, clearly shocked at the force behind the blow, and Jungkook took his chance, bringing his foot up into the most delicate of areas.

The ogre went down with a roar of pain, a vein bulging in his neck as his face turned red and his hands shot to his groin. Jungkook would have been lying if he said he didn’t feel a strong burst of pride growing in his gut and he only wished his hyungs were here to see him right now: strong and undefeated.

And then he realised what he’d just thought and backtracked at once.

The chair leg baton was half broken, connected by just a few splinters of wood, completely useless and Jungkook’s eyes searched the room for some kind of weapon before he was forced to battle empty-handed.

It was one of those single-roomed ground floors where the living room and the kitchen were connected and it wasn’t long before his frantic gaze found the knife wrack sitting atop the counter, right there in the open for anyone to grab.

Idiots.

He lunged forwards, briefly abandoning his vigil over the front door in his dash for the blades, trembling fingers fastening around the largest handle and pulling it free of its wooden block.

It was huge, sharp and shining in the dim kitchen light, and his stomach twisted into knots of nauseating disgust at the thought of using it on somebody, hurting somebody, maybe even killing somebody.

And then he remembered Yoongi.

Yoongi writhing against his restraints as a cigarette butt burrowed into the skin of his collarbone, letting him feel the agony of his own flesh burning away while he remained bound and completely powerless to defend himself.

Yoongi’s head being wrenched back so he could be waterboarded, kicking out in protest, suffocating on the very substance he needed the most just because he’d tried to stop Jungkook from wrapping his face in duct tape.

Yoongi crying. Yoongi screaming. Yoongi in pain. Yoongi in fear. Yoongi too weak to even raise his head. All because of these bastards and their twisted obsession with getting their hands on that money.

And suddenly he didn’t feel so guilty about wanting to spill blood.

He whipped around, the blade clutched in his now-very-steady hand, ready to do whatever he needed to do, and he felt his blood freeze in his veins, stomach churning, eyes widening, fear exploding until it infected his every pore.

Because Beanie had Minseok.

Jungkook had thought they’d knocked him out when they’d shoved him down that flight of stairs and he did have a trickle of blood sourcing from somewhere beneath his hair, but he looked perfectly fine now.

Perfectly fine in the way he stood there in the middle of the room, his beanie absent from his head and rendering his name no longer valid. Perfectly fine in the way he had Minseok’s lifeless body clamped to his chest, one arm securing the boy who wasn’t even conscious. Perfectly fine in the way he had a knife held against his captive’s throat.

They’d been so stupid.

Sehun was stumbling backwards, away from Minseok and that knife, instantly dropping his stick to the floor and raising his hands in surrender. But Jungkook couldn’t move. They still needed more time.

“Drop the knife,” Beanie threatened and by now, Muscles and Jacket had recovered themselves, clambering to their feet with murderous expressions on their masked faces.

And Jungkook still couldn’t move because they still needed more time. Donghyuck and Chan hadn’t had nearly long enough to get away and as soon as he gave up like Sehun was doing right now, he would be allowing their abductors to plunge into the forest and find them.

“I said drop the knife!”

“Jungkook!” Sehun choked, watching with tears sparking his eyes as Beanie gave Minseok a particularly violent shake, the blade far too close to his carotid artery. “Jungkook, put it down!”

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Was Muscles close enough for him to leap forwards and stab him through the heart? If he brought the largest of these three brutes down then the other two wouldn’t be nearly as difficult to defeat.

But then Beanie would kill Minseok and Jungkook wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

“You have three seconds before I slit his throat and make you clean the blood off the floor.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the knife, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He knew he was beaten. And they’d only managed to buy Chan and Donghyuck a couple of minutes.

“Three …”

“Jungkook, drop the fucking knife!”

“Alright!” Jungkook screamed, the crack in Sehun’s voice shattering his soul in a thousand pieces as he tossed the knife to the ground and raised his hands. “Alright … Alright …”

Jacket stormed over to him, his eye still purple and swollen shut, and seized his arm in a vice-like grip, twisting it behind his back and forcing him to his knees on the kitchen floor, kicking the knife onto the other side of the room.

Jungkook looked down. He heard Muscles calling someone on the phone, his voice and footsteps fading away as he went sprinting out into the darkness to search for the escaped prisoners. But he looked down.

“I wish I could rip you apart,” Jacket hissed in his ear, so close that he could smell the alcohol on his breath. “But you’re off limits so I guess I’ll just have to settle for your friend.”

Any defeat in Jungkook’s body was replaced with anger. Panic and anger, and he found himself bucking against Jacket’s grip, desperately trying to rip his hands free and screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Don’t you touch him! I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking bastard! Don’t you dare fucking touch him or I’ll break every fucking bone in your body!”

Jacket was apparently surprised by his victim’s strength but the sensation was short-lived. It only took five seconds for him to push his knee into Jungkook’s back, forcing him down onto his stomach with his hands still pinned behind him.

“Tough talk,” he smirked. “But you brought this on yourself, kiddo.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Jungkook hissed back, raising his head off the tiles to see that Sehun was on his knees, too, even though there was no one to hold him down.

Threatening Minseok’s life was more effective than any chain or rope. He was a puppet on a string as long as Beanie had a knife to his hyung’s throat.

Jacket released Jungkook’s hands only to replace the grip with his knee, still keeping the kid fully restrained and Jungkook heard the grating sound of duct tape being torn from its roll before it was wrapped around his wrists, over and over and over again.

He tried to pull but there was no give, none at all. He was secured too tightly, completely helpless, and when Jacket seized his elbow and heaved him up onto his knees, he saw that Beanie had dropped Minseok to the ground so he could do the same to Sehun.

And just like that, it was over.

“Get up,” Jacket growled, pulling so violently that Jungkook would have splattered face first into the floor if it wasn’t for the burning grip on his upper arm.

He only just managed to make it to his feet before he was being pushed forwards, back to that basement with the single light bulb and the smell of vomit and the sound of Yoongi’s screams bouncing off the walls.

He didn’t want to go back in there. He didn’t ever want to go back in there for as long as he lived. But now he had no choice, forcing his feet into motion, Jacket still clutching his arm to ensure he had no means of escape.

“Please don’t hurt him,” he heard Sehun begging behind him. “Please … I’ll walk by myself. Just please … please be gentle with him. He’s sick enough as it is.”

Jungkook tuned him out. He didn’t want to hear his hyung begging for Minseok’s safety because he knew it was fruitless. They’d just attacked their captors. They might as well have signed Yoongi and Minseok’s death warrants. Jeonghan and Yuta, too.

He’d known the plan wouldn’t work but only now did he realise that, if Chan and Donghyuck hadn’t made it, life wasn’t going to be worth living.

The three hyungs were right where they’d left them, lying in the corner with their eyes closed and their breathing patterns terrifyingly lethargic. Only now, the wine rack had been tossed aside in Beanie’s furious quest to find a bargaining chip.

Jungkook saw Yoongi, reminding himself that his big brother was still alive even if he wouldn’t be for much longer. His face was so pale. He was so thin. The burns across his collarbone looked horribly infected.

He’d been relying on his maknae to protect him and Jungkook had failed.

He wondered if his knee caps shattered when Jacket planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved him into the concrete floor. There was a grunt as Sehun landed beside him and then a cry of horror when Minseok was dropped in front of them with a sickening thud.

“I said be gentle!” Sehun yelled, tear tracks streaking through the grime on his face. “He has a head injury! You’re going to kill him!”

He fell silent after just one kick to Minseok’s knee and Jungkook couldn’t stop himself from giving Beanie the filthiest glare he could muster.

These men were going to die. Jeon Jungkook would make sure of it.

But first, he had to know that Yoongi was safe. That Yoongi was as far away from all of this as possible. And for that, Donghyuck and Chan needed to escape.

So Jungkook knelt there on that cold, unforgiving floor, hands bound behind his back, Sehun softly sobbing beside him, Yoongi unconscious in the corner, and he prayed for the people who were out there in that forest, running not just for their own lives but for six others' as well.


	32. Just Three Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Park Jisung (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Namjoon! You deserve the world!

_“If … If you follow … If you follow us … y … your hyungs will … will … die.”_

_“Donghyuck!”_

_BANG!_

_“AGH!”_

_“If … If you follow … If you follow us … y … your hyungs will … will … die.”_

_“Donghyuck!”_

_BANG!_

_“AGH!”_

_“If … If you follow … If you follow us … y … your hyungs will … will … die.”_

_“Donghyuck!”_

_BANG!_

_“AGH!”_

 

**_“If … If you follow … If you follow us … y … your hyungs will … will … die.”_ **

**_“Donghyuck!”_ **

**_BANG!_ **

**_“AGH!”_ **

 

Jisung opened his eyes.

It wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it was in the movies. There was no gasp for air as he bolted into an upright position, sweat dripping from his forehead and hands bunched in the bedsheets as he sat there and panted like a dog without water. He just … opened his eyes.

One nightmare ended and another began.

He rubbed his eyes and rolled off the bed, desperately needing to move. To just _do_ something that wasn’t sit and cry like everyone else did. Like he’d been doing until just recently.

There was sunlight streaming through the window, casting silhouettes on his bedroom floor, and it was only then that Jisung remembered he’d fallen asleep halfway through the afternoon.

It was stupid. So, so stupid. He shouldn’t be sleeping. He shouldn’t be able to sleep. Sleep was the very thing that seemed to be eluding each of his hyungs and yet, for him, it was like his body couldn’t get enough of it.

He just slept. And ate. And dreamed of the moment he watched Donghyuck staggering in the middle of the park, screaming in agony as a bullet punctured his skin.

It wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. If those monsters had been going for maknaes then why hadn’t they taken him? Jisung. Not Donghyuck. Why not him? Or somebody else? Another group, maybe. Just … anyone else.

The thought was disgusting. Selfish. Cruel. But real.

He would have thrown anybody – anybody at all – under the bus if it meant getting his Donghyuck-hyung and his Yuta-hyung to come home, safe and unharmed.

Wriggling out of his hoodie, he rifled through the chest of drawers in the corner of the room, curse words ghosting over his lips until he finally found what he’d been searching for. He took the smooth material in his hands and slid it over his body, clutching the fabric against his chest and breathing in the scent he hadn’t allowed to be washed away.

Yuta’s scent.

Yuta’s hoodie.

The only thing of Yuta he still had. Except for the video on Taeyong’s phone, capturing the exact moment his big brother’s bones were shattered while he writhed in agony and Donghyuck begged for forgiveness.

Jisung flinched at the sound of breaking glass and the loud thud that accompanied it, but the fear didn’t truly kick in until he heard Kun shouting.

Stumbling towards the door, he wrenched it open with brutal ferocity and pelted out into the hallway, following the panicked voices into the kitchen where nothing but chaos seemed to have any control.

Kun and Yukhei were kneeling on the floor, their bodies obscuring whoever it was that was sprawled over the tiles. Jisung could only see a pair of sockless feet, hanging limply to either side as their owner bathed in unconscious oblivion.

There was glass everywhere, tiny crystallised fragments waiting to bite into unsuspecting flesh, and Doyoung was trying to sweep it aside with his shoe so that it wouldn’t pose such a prominent threat.

Taeil was talking down the phone, raising his voice in order to make himself clear to whoever was on the other end that they were in desperate need of help. Urgent help.

Even as the youngest stood there, Renjun came barrelling past him with a pillow that Kun used to prop up the bodiless feet Jisung still couldn’t identify the owner of.

There were so many things to take in all at once and he wanted to help but he didn’t know how to without getting in the way and he hadn’t realised he was crying until there was moisture on his face and suddenly his chest was getting tighter and he could _not_ have another panic attack right now when somebody else so clearly needed the help he would be taking away from them.

His legs carried him forwards before he could stop them, wanting, _needing,_ to know who it was whose life appeared to be in danger, and his blood curdled in his veins as he rounded the kitchen island and saw Taeyong’s colourless face lolling in Johnny’s lap as Kun and Yukhei did whatever they could to wake him.

Taeyong had collapsed.

They had all known it was coming. Their leader wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t sleep. The only thing he seemed capable of doing was sitting by the phone, waiting for the ring that would tell him what he was dying to know.

Taeyong had collapsed.

And Jisung felt like every inflatable device that was keeping him afloat did, too. 

“Someone needs to go!” Mark was shouting, tear tracks streaking down his face as he clutched what looked like his leader’s phone to his chest. “Someone needs to be there!”

“I’m going!” Johnny declared, reaching out and snagging Jungwoo’s arm, pulling him down onto his knees so he could pass Taeyong’s head over into the younger boy’s lap. “Manager-hyung will be here in a few minutes!”

“I want to go, too,” Renjun whimpered, trembling in the corner of the kitchen with his watering eyes fixated on his unconscious leader.

And Jisung had no idea what was happening or where all these people wanted to go but he found himself desiring the exact same thing. Whether it was to sit with Taeyong at the hospital or something else entirely, he needed to be there. He needed to do something.

He couldn’t let them keep treating him like a child.

“What’s going on?” he called out over the ruckus, but his timid little squeak simply bounced off all the other voices reverberating around him.

“Okay, everybody shut up!” Taeil screamed, and silence fell at once.

The eldest was shaking like a leaf, having hung up the phone, and was holding his hands out towards all the faces turned his way. He was crying, too, Jisung realised. Crying a lot. But he was trying to choke it down, trying to hide the weakness he shouldn’t have to deny he held.

“The ambulance is coming,” he continued, furiously blinking back tears of pain and grief and fear and frustration as the world seemed determined to break them into the smallest fragments that it could. “And Kun, you're going with Taeyong. Yukhei, take him into the living room and put him on the sofa. I don’t want him lying on all that glass.”

He was obeyed without question, everybody too panicked to speak up in protest as the eldest used his status to replace the gaping hole that Taeyong’s unconsciousness left.

Yukhei gave a short, sharp grunt as he slid his arms beneath his leader and hefted him up off the floor. Jisung winced as he watched Taeyong’s head just hanging over the crook of the boy’s arm, hair flopping about uselessly and arms swinging at his sides as Kun and Jungwoo followed them out of the room.

Whatever was wrong with him, he already looked dead.

“Johnny,” Taeil pushed on, lowering his hands and bracing them against the countertop as he swayed slightly on his feet. “You and Mark go with Manager-hyung and Detective Park. And you fucking call as soon as you hear anything, have you got that?”

“Yes,” both Johnny and Mark gasped out simultaneously, relief evident on their pale faces as they sprinted from the room, the front door slamming mere seconds later.

“I’m going to call everyone who needs to be called,” Taeil swallowed thickly. “Yixing-hyung, Namjoon-sunbaenim, Joshua-sunbaenim … They have to know, too. Doyoung, you’re in charge until I get back. Make sure all this glass is cleaned up before somebody gets hurt.”

And with that, he was storming towards the door with every intent on leaving, and Jisung felt his last dregs of logic tearing themselves from the deepest depths of his mind and coming together just when he needed them to.

“Hyung!” he cried, leaping forwards and grabbing Taeil by the elbows.

It was a disrespectful act. He was manhandling an elder. He was actually taller than that elder but it was still wrong. Except he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he had to punch Taeil because the one question on the tip of his tongue was all that mattered to him in this hurricane of confusion and bewilderment and fear.

“What’s happening?”

Taeil had been so close to breaking, and at those simple words, his exterior crumbled and his floodgates opened and he was sobbing in the middle of the kitchen, face in his hands and shoulders heaving with the effort of choking out every painful breath.

Jisung just stared.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel. And Doyoung and Renjun seemed to be in the exact same predicament.

When it had become clear to them that Taeyong was no longer capable of stringing together a coherent thought, they had all automatically turned to Taeil to guide them and to lead them and to show them that there still was hope no matter how dark it seemed to be.

And now Taeil was crying.

Still holding onto his arms, fingers probably digging in like a vice, Jisung did the first thing he could think of. He pulled his eldest hyung into a hug, bewilderedly stroking a hand up and down his back and merely letting him cry into his shoulder.

Who said the eldest couldn’t be comforted, anyway?

Who said the maknae couldn’t be the one to do the comforting?  

Jisung glanced over Taeil’s shoulder, eyes boring pleadingly into Doyoung’s solemn expression as he begged for the answer he knew the sobbing boy in his arms wasn’t going to give him.

“What’s happening?” he whispered for the third – and hopefully – the final time.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting.

He didn’t know if something had happened at the hospital or with the police or if they’d found a trail or another video or where Mark and Johnny had sprinted off to in such a desperate hurry or why Taeyong had collapsed like that.

The only thing – the _only_ thing – that he did know was that he hadn’t been expecting Doyoung to utter the next three words that brought ice to every one of his internal organs and turned his world upside down.

Just three words.

It doesn’t sound like much.

It’s not supposed to sound like much.

But those three words changed everything.

“They found Donghyuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I was gone for so long. I've seen your comments. I know I disappointed you guys so I'm really, really, really sorry. My surgery scar got infected and I had to go back into hospital for a bit and now I've got a mountain of schoolwork to catch up on so this took so much longer than I meant for it to but I managed to squeeze it out at 3am last night! Again, I'm so sorry I kept you waiting … Please, please, please forgive me …


	33. The Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Oh Sehun (EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Jongdae! My EXO bias, have the best day!

             Sehun watched Minseok breathing. It was the only thing he knew how to do to keep himself from bursting into tears and begging God to save him in front of the people who’d abducted him.

He knelt on the cold stone floor, Jungkook’s shoulders heaving beside him, with his hands tied so tightly behind his back that he felt like his joints were going to pop out of place, and he watched Minseok breathing.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

He matched the pattern of his hyung’s lungs to his own, reminding himself over and over and over and over again that Minseok was alive and as long as he, Sehun, kept quiet and did as he was told, he would remain that way.

Nobody was talking. Jacket was standing in front of them, his jaw set in fury as he stared down at his captives, bruises from the valiant escape attempt already starting to form on his face.

_You're off limits._

Those words echoed in Sehun’s head. He wanted to know what exactly they meant and why he, Jungkook, Chan and Donghyuck weren't to be touched when the others were allowed to be slung around like sacks of flour, regardless of how sick and injured they already were.

He almost jumped out of his skin when the door banged open at the top of the stairs. From where he was kneeling, he couldn’t see who it was and he was too frightened to turn around but it wasn’t long before somebody landed on the ground beside him with a heavy thud and a pained sob.

Chan.

The kid’s wrists were restrained behind him with duct tape, just like the other two. His face was splattered with snags in his pale skin, his lip was split at the side and slightly bloody, and his eyes were streaming tears like faucets.

And Sehun felt like his world collapsed because if Chan had been caught then Donghyuck couldn’t be far behind.  

Chan was forced up onto his knees, his throat emitting a strangled cry of agony, and Sehun caught sight of his ankle. It was already blossoming purple and swelling up like a balloon: definitely a horrific sprain if not a clean break or a dislocation.

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, glistening eyes boring into Sehun’s expression, begging for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry.”

There was absolutely no way Sehun could bring himself to be mad at that little boy. Not when he was so scared and in so much pain and had tried so hard to give them their best chance of survival.

“It’s okay,” he breathed back, wanting to wrap the kid in a hug but unable to due to the restraints cutting off his fingers’ circulation. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shut up!” came the growl from behind and they both fell silent at once.

Time stretched on. Sehun had no idea how long they knelt there but it felt like hours. Hours and hours of waiting for that door to open up again and Donghyuck to join them.

The door did open, somebody did come thundering down the stairs and somebody did kneel on the ground with them but it wasn’t Donghyuck. It was Tattoo.

He looked livid. There was a vein popping in his temple and Sehun was sure that if he wasn’t still wearing that mask, the bulge in his jaw would be more than visible. Even an idiot could tell he was in the right mindset to murder at the drop of a hat.

His eyes were stretched into thin slits as they travelled from Jungkook to Sehun and then to Chan, and his hand came up to nudge the boy’s chin, tilting his head to the side so he could inspect the bruises.

By some miracle, Chan didn’t flinch or pull away. He just let himself be examined, rough fingers tracing the swelling of his lip and the cut in the peak of his cheekbone, but when Tattoo spoke, Sehun literally felt the chills running down his spine.

“You didn’t have to hit him so hard. Any worse and he’d be off the market.”

What. The. Fuck.

Tattoo straightened up and Chan released a shaky breath he probably hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his stout little body deflating with relief as that terrifying staring contest came to an end. Sehun would have whispered some words of reassurance but he was too terrified and confused.

Market? What market?  

“No sign of the younger one you said?” Tattoo’s voice cut through the silence like a whip crack, causing all three boys on their knees to jump.

“No,” somebody – it sounded like Muscles – grunted from behind them. “They were heading in the right direction, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the kid already made it to the road.”

Donghyuck had made it? Donghyuck had made it. Donghyuck had made it. Donghyuck had to make it. Donghyuck _had_ to make it. Or Sehun, Chan and Jungkook would go on that market Tattoo was talking about.

There was another stretch of silence where Sehun kept his gaze firmly fixated on the floor, listening to Tattoo’s hissed curse words and sighs of frustration. He wished he could read minds. He wished he knew what that man was thinking.

Then again, maybe he didn’t.

“We have to move.”

What? No. No, no, no, no.

“Grab them and let’s go,” Tattoo ordered, waving his hand towards the prisoners in front of him. “If the kid brings the cops here then we’re all screwed. We’ve got to be gone before then.”

The panic was reaching boiling point. Sehun was surprised he hadn’t actually stopped breathing as huge hammy hands fastened iron-tight grips around his upper arms and roughly heaved him to his feet.

They couldn’t move them. They couldn’t. If Donghyuck made it to a police station and they sent a swarm of cars and officers with guns to infiltrate the place and save them, they had to be here for it. If they were moved …

“Get going!”

A hand planted itself between his shoulder blades and shoved him far too hard. He stumbled, almost falling flat on his face, but the grip on his elbow was too tight. His shoulders were bent painfully, his ribs were squeezing his heart and he could barely feel his feet as he stumbled up the stairs.

Jungkook was yelling, trying to fight back. Chan was crying. Sehun’s head swivelled round, eyes practically bulging out of his head and breathing increasing until he caught sight of Minseok’s unconscious body in Baldy’s arms.

The hyungs were coming with them. If they were never going to be found then at least the hyungs were coming with them. At least they weren’t being left here. At least they weren’t … Then why was Yuta still lying in the corner?

“Hey!” one of the captors – they hadn’t come up with a name for him yet – shouted, giving Yuta’s motionless form a swift kick. “What do we do with this one?”

Ahead of Sehun, Tattoo stopped walking, forcing the idol to stumble slightly in his hurry to stop. He stared up at the face in his nightmares, waiting for that disgustingly evil brain to come to the conclusion that would secure Yuta’s fate.

“Kill him.”

“No …” Sehun whispered, shaking his head frantically and bucking against the man who was holding him in his desperation to escape. “You can’t kill him! You can’t! Please! He’s just a kid! He didn’t do anything wrong! You don’t have to kill him! Please!”

He should have known it was useless. Tattoo kept walking as though there wasn’t a boy screaming for mercy at the top of his lungs just behind him, and Sehun felt hands fasten on his shoulders, turning him around to face his abductor.

Muscles was smiling at him. Actually fucking smiling. It was the last thing Sehun saw before he was pulled forwards and hoisted over that gigantic man’s broad back.

All the air was knocked out of him and he couldn’t get the breath to scream. Couldn’t get the leverage to kick. Couldn’t get the energy to fight. To escape. To save Yuta.

“You’re monsters!” he gasped out, unsuccessfully trying to twist so that he could bite Muscles’ neck. “You’re monsters … You’re killing a kid! You’re killing a kid.”

He barely even noticed when he breathed fresh air for the first time in two weeks. It was still dark outside and the wind was cruelly cold, batting at his helpless body as he was carried over gravel, convinced that, at any point, he was going to be dropped onto the ground beneath him.

“How can you live with yourselves!”

Muscles tossed him into the back of that familiar van, his butt crashing painfully against the metal floor before he fell backwards onto his bound hands, his own fists digging uncomfortably into his spine and causing him to let out a yelp of pain.

“Somebody shut him up! He’s giving me a right fucking headache!”

Sehun managed to prop his elbows beneath him and pushed with his feet, shuffling backwards until he hit the wall behind which the driver’s seats would reside.

He got to see the moment Chan was dropped the same way that he was, wincing in sympathy when he heard the kid’s scream as his injured ankle was jostled unnecessarily upon impact.

Jungkook was still fighting but any threats he wanted to make had been silenced by the rag somebody had bound around his head, slipping between his lips and muffling his screams of rage.

It was only a few seconds before he, too, was shoved into the getaway vehicle and his feet were trussed up with more duct tape, preventing any more kicking and flailing.

Minseok, Yoongi and Jeonghan joined them after that, still unconscious, and even the security of knowing he was with his hyung didn’t soothe the despair that was pulsating in Sehun’s gut.

Yuta wasn’t here.

The doors were slammed shut, plunging them all into pitch black, and the engines rumbled to life, gravel crunching beneath them as they all tumbled to the side with the speed of the van’s start.

“Jungkook!” Sehun shouted, his voice cracking on the first syllable. “Stop! You’re not helping anybody!”

The thumps, the grunts and the restricted gasps for air dissipated as Jungkook seemed to finally realise that resistance was futile. That they weren’t getting out of this. That the sliver of hope they’d managed to acquire had just slipped right through their desperately floundering hands.

Sehun had no idea how long they drove for but nobody said a word. The only sounds were Yoongi’s wheezing breaths and Chan’s stifled sobs. By now, their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and Sehun could make out the figure of the youngest curled up in the corner of the van but he couldn’t bring himself to shuffle over and comfort him.

He’d let them kill Yuta.

He wondered how they’d done it. Had it been quick? Painless? Had he been awake? Had he felt it? The life leaving his body? Had they taken him somewhere else and buried him? Dumped him in a river? At the side of the road? Or had they just abandoned him to rot in that basement until somebody found him?

Sehun concluded that he must have somehow fallen asleep – or maybe passed out from fear – because the next thing he knew, there were arms everywhere. They grabbed him, hauled him to his feet regardless of the pins and needles that attacked his body, and it was too bright to see anything but pain.

Morning had come.

A rough, foul-tasting cloth forced his lips apart and flattened his tongue to the base of his mouth. The knot that was tied at the back of his head tugged on his hair, several of the overlong strands getting caught in the fabric, and he choked at the sudden intrusion to his taste buds.

He tried to look around as he was tugged from the back of the van, wanting to be able to identify some kind of landmark, but the only thing he caught sight of was the pinky-orange hue of the sky before some kind of bag was pulled over his head and his world went dark again.

It was a terrifying sensation, being forced to walk when he couldn’t see where he was going and couldn’t hold out his arms to prevent himself from crashing into something. He had to put all his trust in whoever was guiding him and that single thought alone was disgusting.

His toe met the threshold of a front door and he screamed through his gag as he felt half of his nail snapping off and possibly even a few bones breaking. The only response he got to his agony was a sharp, short bark of laughter from the person gripping his elbow.

“Fucking dumbass …”

He fell at the slightest push, the floor rushing up to meet him as he landed on his shoulder with a heavy thud. Maybe it was irrational but he expected to suddenly be assaulted with boots and fists.

However, the only thing he got was a hand fisting in his shirt, heaving him into a sitting position and ramming his back against something hard – a wall? – behind him. The bag was whipped off his head, sending greasy tufts of his hair spilling in all directions, and he blinked against the assault on his corneas.

There was no furniture. The floor was covered in dust and the windows were boarded up with white polyester drapes, preventing anyone from seeing the atrocities that were going on inside.

It looked like a house somebody had just moved out of and Sehun realised it was probably the only destination available at such short notice.

Tattoo crouched down in front of him and he tried to scoot away as much as possible, breathing heavily through his nose. He didn’t like the look of those eyes. The bloodlust, the fury they held.

“Oh, Kid … I’m going to make you regret the day you were born.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, guys, for all the support on the last chapter. You really made me feel much better. I should be able to update a bit more frequently for a while so that's good!
> 
> And remember, there is not a MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH tag.


	34. Begged For His Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Donghyuck (Haechan of NCT)

        His mouth was burning. A knife was plunging itself repeatedly into the space between his ribs. His bare feet were bloody and bruised from all the stones and twigs he couldn’t see in the darkness.

The wound in his arm was throbbing with the worst kind of agony he had ever felt, and yet he couldn’t stop even for a second.

He’d left Yuta behind. He’d left Chan behind. They were both dead or at least as good as dead if he didn’t find help within the next few hours. Or minutes.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running for, how long he’d given his kidnappers to murder his friends.

He just ran. Crying, gasping for air, clutching his injured arm to his chest, wanting more than anything for Taeyong to appear right in front of him so he could stumble into his embrace and never let go.

And then there was light.

Two pinpricks streaming through the tree trunks ahead of him, rocketing forwards as fast as a speeding car. Because it was a speeding car.

Donghyuck briefly wondered if he was hallucinating but he pushed aside any doubt and threw every last drop of energy he had into increasing his pace, pumping his legs harder than they could handle but still somehow managing to crash out of the undergrowth and stagger onto the smooth tarmac of a highway.

The light was blindingly bright, hurtling towards him without any signs of stopping … And then it stopped.

Donghyuck stood there, cradling his wounded arm, the glare of the car’s headlights burning his shivering body, eyes squinting, breaths trembling in lungs that felt like they were on fire, tears streaming, lips whispering meaningless pleas to whatever God was sitting behind the wheel.

“Hey!”

There was the slam of a door and a faceless figure loomed out of nowhere, approaching threateningly and causing Donghyuck to stumble backwards in fright. Maybe all the running had driven him crazy but his frozen mind was convinced that was Tattoo coming to take him back to that place.

“Kid, you okay?”

There was another one. Another man. They were both coming closer. They were both going to hurt him. They were both going to make him watch as they murdered Yuta.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re police officers, okay?”

Police officers? Really? Were they lying? They had to be lying. There was no way Donghyuck had been lucky enough to fling himself into the path of a police car.

These people were deceiving him, trying to trick him into going with them so they could drive him straight back to that basement with the bloodstains on the floor.

“See? This is my badge. I’m Officer Cha. See?”

The first figure took another step forward, holding out something silver and shiny that Donghyuck could only just recognise as a police badge. His face was visible now and his eyes were kind. Kind eyes. The eyes of somebody who wanted to help.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, steady, kid. I got you … I got you.”

Donghyuck hadn’t realised he’d been falling until he felt strong arms around him, slipping beneath his knees and swinging him up into an embrace. It wasn’t Taeyong’s, but it was about as good as it would get at that moment.

“Let’s get him to a hospital,” the man who held him called out to the other. “He’s fucking freezing. God knows how long he’s been out here.”

His eyes were fluttering closed. He could barely keep them open and he knew there was something of vital importance that he needed to tell them but he couldn’t remember because suddenly he was warm.

A blanket cocooned him in its fluffy fibres, a sturdy chest was supporting him from behind, the surface beneath him felt like smooth leather and a water bottle was pressed into his shivering grip, a hand helping him raise it to his mouth.

It felt like an eternity since he’d experienced kindness and comfort such as this.

And then he remembered.

“Help …” he whispered, trying to push himself up but only succeeding in falling back against the body of the police officer who was sitting beside him in the back of the car. “Help … Please …”

“It’s okay, kid,” the man soothed, rubbing his hands over Donghyuck’s upper arms, unknowingly skimming over the bullet wound and causing the boy to choke out a cry of pain. “Are you hurt? Let me see.”

The blanket was pulled away and Donghyuck whined pathetically at the loss of the warmth. He knew the officer must be able to see the blood staining his shirt and the sleeve of Sehun’s hoodie that was still tethered around his arm, but he had to convince them not to take him to a hospital.

He had to convince them to take him to Yuta.

“Help …”

“Jesus … Okay, kid. It’s okay. We’re getting you to a hospital. They’ll help, okay? They’ll help you. You’re okay.”

“No …” Donghyuck whimpered, feeling the grumble of an engine and blinking out another wave of fresh tears. “You don’t understand … You need to help us …”

“Us? Who’s us?”

“My friends …” Donghyuck pleaded, registering for the first time that he was lying across the seats with his head in the officer’s lap, bunching the blanket against his chest and quivering like a leaf in the wind. “They still have my friends … you have to help them …”

“Wait a minute … Kid, what’s your name?”

“Donghyuck. Lee Donghyuck.”

There was silence in the car. Stunned silence. Frozen silence. Teetering on the brink of unconsciousness silence.

“Hyeojin, call it in,” the police officer who cradled him finally muttered. “Call it in right now! We have one of the eight missing idols.”

Donghyuck felt hope spreading through his gut accompanied with other emotions he couldn’t quite identify. Relief? Joy? Maybe still a little fear? Because his job wasn’t done yet. The hard part was over, but he wasn’t anywhere near finished.

“House …” he mumbled, blinking viciously in an attempt to stay awake. “House … They’re in a house …”

“Donghyuck?” A hand gently swatted his cheek, coaxing him away from the edge of darkness. “Donghyuck, can you tell me where your friends are?”

He wished he could. But the only thing he knew was, “it was a house.”

“Okay, Donghyuck, but where is it? On the other side of the woods? Was it like a holiday house or …”

“Yes!” Donghyuck whispered, nodding his head only to be overcome with dizziness and being forced to swallow back a mouthful of vomit. “A holiday house … The other side of the woods …”

“Hyeojin, ca –”

“Got it! All units, repeat, calling all units. This is 3006. We have located one of the eight missing idols from Seoul and have a solid lead on the other seven. Urgent backup required at the Maoi Guest House. Repeat, all units, urgent backup required at the Maoi Guest House.”

Donghyuck was falling. Falling into softness. Falling into darkness. Falling into an endless space where pain didn’t exist and fear was unheard of. Falling somewhere that would lead him away from everything he had been through and everything he had lost.

“They’ll kill them …” he breathed, head lolling against the officer’s thigh. “They know I’m gone … They’ll kill them.”

“It’s okay, Donghyuck,” his saviour assured him. “We’ll get there as fast as we can.”

That wasn’t a promise. He hadn’t said what Donghyuck wanted to hear. He hadn’t said, ‘we’ll find them’, ‘we’ll save them’ or ‘we won’t let them die’ because that wasn’t a deal he was allowed to make. He didn’t know for sure.

“The nearest unit’s at least fifteen minutes out,” the other officer – Hyeojin? – called from the front of the car. “They’re not going to be there in time.”

“Then we’ll go.”

“We’ve got the kid.”

“Hyeojin!” Donghyuck’s new favourite person snapped. “These kids have been held and tortured for over two weeks. We’re going.”

There was no further argument after that.

Donghyuck didn’t properly understand what was going on such was the speed at which he was spiralling into the unconsciousness he’d craved for far too long, but when the car skidded to a stop, he knew something big was happening.

“Hey, Donghyuck! Donghyuck, look at me!”

He opened his eyes very reluctantly, blinking owlishly up at the kind face looking down on him from above. Like a guardian angel.

“You stay in the car, alright, Donghyuck? You stay in the car.”

All Donghyuck had time to do was nod before the doors were flung open and the pillow he’d been resting against was gone. And he was left alone with his blanket and the steadily-oozing, newly-opened, throbbing-like-a-bitch wound in his arm.

It took him far too long to realise where he must be and, when he did, he shot up from his seat so quickly that his vision was clouded with popping lights and exploding fireworks.

The bit of sky he could see through the window was beginning to pale, the shades lightening steadily as the expanse got lower to the ground so that the horizon was almost white in comparison to the inky blackness Donghyuck had been staggering through mere minutes previously.

It seemed like dawn was already starting to break and it had been far too long since he’d watched a sunrise.

But that particular pleasure would have to wait because the huge black vans he knew had been lining the gravelled driveway outside the house he now could identify as the Maoi Guest House were gone.

The radio on the dashboard crackled with static and Donghyuck flinched as the voice of his saviour cried out in panic to whoever would be on the receiving end of his SOS.

_“This is 3006! I need an ambulance to the Maoi Guest House now! Repeat …”_

Donghyuck didn’t wait for the repeat. The officers were inside. His friends were supposed to be inside. The officers were calling for an ambulance. That was all the information he needed.

Kicking his blanket aside, oblivious to the fact that he was still barefoot and colder than he’d ever been in his life, he grappled with the door until it finally burst open and he was able to tumble out onto that gravel he had come to know so well.

That house would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his living days. He didn’t want to go back in there. Ever. But Yuta was in there. Yuta needed help. Yuta needed him. There were sirens in the distance, approaching rapidly, but not rapid enough.

Blinking away the flashbacks to the last time he’d staggered over that threshold, Donghyuck practically threw himself at the stairs to the basement, clattering down each and every one with uncoordinated footsteps and a heart that seemed to be beating in his mouth.

The officers were on the floor, kneeling beside something that wasn’t moving, and as Donghyuck shuffled closer, he found that some part of him already knew what he was going to see.

Yuta wasn’t breathing.

He could tell from the way Hyeojin was frantically pummelling his chest with both hands, grunting from the exertion of performing the compressions until he bowed over the patient’s lax face, pinched his nose and exhaled a forceful breath into his lungs.

Yuta wasn’t breathing.

He could tell from the way he was just lying there with his limbs splayed in all directions, as though he’d just fallen several feet to land with a thump on the concrete. His hand was just as mangled as it had been when Donghyuck left him, the wounds already turning a dangerously yellow colour.

Yuta wasn’t breathing.

He could tell from the chair that was lying on its side and the words that were scrawled on the back wall in gigantic black letters, virtually screaming out their morbid message: _TELL DONGHYUCK HIS HYUNG BEGGED FOR HIS LIFE._

Yuta wasn’t breathing.

He could tell from the belt that was still around his neck, the other end of the leather noose broken and fraying from where the officers had needed to slice through it in order to cut him down from the supporting beams. The bruises already stood out starkly against sugary flesh.

Yuta wasn’t breathing.

Because those bastards had hung him.


	35. Physically Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Mark Lee (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Hendery! Love you lots and lots, my little weirdo!

           “He’s pretty sensitive to light right now so we’re keeping the room dark,” Detective Park rattled off as Mark tried his best to keep up with the man’s lengthy strides all while concealing his desperation to set eyes on Donghyuck as soon as humanly possible. “He’s also very reluctant to let anybody touch him. I’m hoping that might change now that there’s somebody here who he knows.”

Mark nodded again, biting down on the inside of his cheek so hard that he could taste the coppery substance against his tongue.

He was in the same building as Donghyuck. After seventeen days of not knowing, of hoping, of praying, of preparing for the worst, Donghyuck was just a few doors away. He couldn’t even think about how damaged and terrified his little brother must be at this moment.

He just had to hold him.

“Okay,” Park breathed out as he finally drew to a stop, flashing his FBI badge at the two police officers standing either side of the door. “Remember, Mark. I know that you may want to hug him as soon as you walk in here but he might not be ready for that yet. Go at his speed and be as gentle as you can. Do you understand?”

Mark couldn’t speak. He just nodded.

One of the police officers reached out and pushed open the VIP room door, revealing solid shadows save for a soft wave of glowing light, and Mark felt goosebumps rising up on every inch of his body as he stepped over the threshold.

He had to resist the urge to burst into tears.

The only source of illumination was a lamp on the bedside table, the cone-shaped visor keeping the majority of the beam fixated on a specific wooden circle and reducing the rest of the room to darkness.

Beyond that was the bed and atop that was Donghyuck.

He’d kicked the blankets into a tangled mess at the foot of the mattress and was curled up on his side, facing away from the door so Mark couldn’t see his face.

But he didn’t need to set eyes on physical features because the sheer smallness of the ball Donghyuck had scrunched himself up into was testament enough to his mental condition.

He was shaking, shoulders hunched, knees drawn up to his chest and arms shielding his head, and Mark had to remind himself what Detective Park had said just before he’d walked in here.

“Donghyuck?” he whispered, already feeling the first tear burning beneath his eyelids. “Hyuck?”

There was no verbal response but Donghyuck grew suddenly rigid and sucked in a short, sharp gasp at the sound of a voice he probably never thought he’d ever hear again.

“Hyuck?”

Very carefully, Mark padded around the foot of the bed, not wanting to suddenly invade Donghyuck’s personal space and deepen the trauma that was already so intense, but it took every ounce of will power not to stagger forwards and throw himself upon the little boy he saw blinking back at him with swollen eyes.

He was wearing a white T-Shirt and pale blue pyjama bottoms, probably provided for him by the hospital seeing as Mark didn’t think he’d been allowed to change his clothes even once since he’d been taken.

His hair was still greasy so he hadn’t showered, and the older boy could actually smell the remnants of sweat, blood and dirt from where he was standing, but that was the very last thing on his mind.

Donghyuck’s upper arm was bandaged, thick white gauze wrapped tightly around the wound Mark knew lay beneath. The gunshot wound. And the kid had an IV in the back of his hand, pumping him with antibiotics to combat the infection that had entered his blood.

“Hyuck …”

Mark’s hand grappled for the back of the closest chair and he only just managed to pull it beneath him before his knees gave out and he collapsed into it with a thump, tears spilling over his cheeks without further restraint.

Donghyuck was crying, too. A single dewdrop rolled over the bridge of his nose but he wasn’t looking at his hyung. Instead, he was staring right through him as though he were transparent and it only made Mark sob even harder.

“Hyuck …” he whimpered pleadingly, debating whether or not to reach out and take hold of that whispery little hand clenched atop the mattress. “Hyuck … Hyung’s here.”

The boy nodded, his cheek rubbing softly against the pillows, but his eyes remained glassy and unfocused, still oozing a steady flow of salted pearls, and Mark found himself regretting every single time he hadn’t let Donghyuck hug him, had hit him, had made fun of him, had given him a hard time in front of the cameras.

He would do absolutely anything in this world to have that kid in his arms.

“Donghyuck …” he tried again, unsure of what he was even going to say but needing to utter some kind of assurance. “Hyuck … I … I missed you …”

Donghyuck sniffled, his bottom lip quivering and, for the briefest and most terrifying moment, Mark thought that his best friend was gone for good. That the people who’d snatched him from his safety net had well and truly ripped him to shreds and left him as nothing more than an empty shell.

But then his eyes moved.

It was slow and tentative, as though he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to make visual contact, but as soon as they were looking right at each other, whatever barrier Donghyuck had put up around himself seemed to come tumbling down.

“I missed you, too,” he whispered, his fingers twitching in Mark’s direction.

The older boy didn’t need to be told twice. Maybe he moved too fast, maybe he scared the kid who was already scarred beyond belief, but he actually didn’t care. He couldn’t wait a minute longer.

“Hyung’s here,” he gasped out, swiping frantically at the snot and spit splurging from his nose as he grabbed hold of Donghyuck’s hand in both of his and started stroking his thumb back and forth over the dry skin. “Hyung’s got you. You’re safe.”

“I hurt him.”

It was so quiet, so cracked and broken, that Mark barely heard it at all but once his mind had the chance to process the words and the meaning behind them, he felt like his heart was being torn into fragmented pieces.

“I hurt him.”

Yuta. He was talking about Yuta. Yuta who was currently somewhere in this hospital, hopefully with Johnny by his side. Yuta whose hand had been mashed and mangled with a hammer, swung by the very person Mark was looking at right now.

Yuta who’d been suspended by his throat from a ceiling supporting beam and left to die, just hanging there until somebody found him with his captor’s parting gift scrawled over the wall behind him: _Tell Donghyuck his hyung begged for his life._

“I hurt him … I …”

“Come here.”

Mark used his free arm to slide it beneath his little brother’s upper body and lift him up off the mattress so he could climb into bed beside him. He trapped Donghyuck against his chest with an iron-tight grip around his shoulders, guiding the kid’s head into the crook of his neck and cupping a hand in his hair.

And Donghyuck’s dam broke.

And Donghyuck cried.

Cried like Mark had never heard him cry before.

“I’m sorry …” he gasped, reaching up to fist his fingers in Mark’s shirt, tears smearing the skin of his hyung’s neck. “I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry … I’m sorry …”

It broke Mark, hearing someone who had once been so full of life and laughter and love completely shatter and beg to be forgiven for something that would never – not in a million years – be considered his fault.

He wished he could take the pain. All of it. Every last sliver. He wished he could take it away from the one person who would never _ever_ deserve it and pile it on top of himself. He wished he could take the memories, the nightmares, the flashbacks, the infection, the wounds. He wished he could take it all.

But he couldn’t.

“Hyung’s here,” he shushed instead, nuzzling his nose into Donghyuck’s unwashed hair and screwing his eyes shut in the hope that his lids would be able to impede his tears. “Hyung’s got you. Hyung’s here.”

He had him. He had his baby back. After two weeks of wondering whether he would ever be able to hold him again, he had his baby in his arms and he would die a thousand times over to ensure nobody ever took him away again.

“Hyung’s here.”

It took an agonisingly long time but, eventually, Donghyuck cried himself to sleep, still snuggled up under Mark’s chin and gripping his shirt like his life depended on it, but asleep. Finally. Asleep.

A nurse came in to check his blood pressure and his temperature and to make sure that the antibiotics were passing through his drip properly. She gave the two boys in the bed a look of heart-breaking endearment, draped the blanket over Donghyuck’s unconscious body and then left.

Mark had no concept of time. Time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the boy he was cradling against his chest, but it was probably another hour or two before the door finally opened and Johnny shuffled into the room, looking dishevelled and exhausted and like he’d been sobbing for half his lifetime.

And as soon as he looked at Donghyuck, he started all over again.

“Oh, God,” Mark heard him whisper as he stumbled towards the bed on legs that didn’t look like they were going to support him for much longer. “Oh, God … Is he … Is he …?”

“Sleeping,” Mark finished for him, watching as his usually-composed and confident hyung crumpled into one of the plastic chairs.

“Is he okay?” Johnny tried again, a quivering hand reaching out to carefully brush his fingers against Donghyuck’s hair. “Is he … Is he hurt?”

In so many ways. So, so, so many ways.

“Physically, he’s going to be okay,” Mark supplied softly, tracing his finger over the bandages wrapped around Donghyuck’s arm before he remembered the reason for Johnny’s late arrival. “Yuta-hyung …?”

He probably waited no more than two seconds for the answer but it felt like an eternity and he held his breath the entire time.

“He’s in the ICU,” Johnny exhaled, a fresh wave of tears dribbling over his cheekbones as he continued to stroke Donghyuck’s hair like it was the softest thing he’d ever felt. “They got his heartbeat back but there’s no guarantee he won’t have brain damage, and that’s if he even wakes up at all.”

Mark was so glad Donghyuck was asleep. He wouldn’t ever want him to hear this.

“And …” He almost vomited at the thought of it. “His … hand?”

If it was even possible, Johnny’s face grew even paler and he squeezed his eyes shut, as though trying to hide from the memory of what he’d seen or heard, before he answered.

“They can’t operate on it until he’s stable and that could take a while so the likelihood of them being able to save all his fingers is pretty slim. He’ll probably lose at least two, maybe three. And they’re pumping him full of antibiotics to fight the infection but it’s already in his bloodstream so … I don’t know …”

He retracted his hand from Donghyuck’s greasy scalp and instead used it to hide his face from view, sobbing pathetically into his palm while Mark just stared in stunned horror at the person he’d been relying on to be the strong one.

There was too much information to process.

Yuta was alive. Well, he had a heartbeat, and that meant he was alive. But he might not wake up. And if he did, he would probably have horrific, irreversible brain damage that would leave him nothing more than a slurring, drooling mess in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

And if, by some miracle, none of that happened, they were still going to amputate his fingers. Two or three of them. How would he live without his fingers? How would he work? Eat? Write? How would he do anything?

But, no matter what outcome befell him, Donghyuck would blame himself.

Whatever had happened in that basement – whatever those monsters had done to them – had been so blindingly horrible and twisted and sadistic that it had somehow distorted the maknae’s mind into believing he was responsible for the injuries Yuta had sustained at the hands of those people.

Mark didn’t know whether to cry or to scream or to leap out of this bed and march into the corridor, steal a police officer’s gun, hunt the bastards down and make them suffer as his friends had suffered.

But none of that was going to help Donghyuck. Or Yuta. Or Johnny. Or Taeyong. Or anybody else.

So he held his little brother, combing his fingers through his hair and rubbing smooth circles into his back and praying to a God he had long since stopped believing in to just let Donghyuck sleep.

But no amount of that was going to erase the things that had been done to them.


	36. Doing Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Im Jaebeom (JB of GOT7)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to my Seventeen bias, Jeonghannie! Love you to heaven and back, angel!

            It was something you could never understand unless you’d been through it yourself. Knowing somebody you loved had been taken from right in front of you and yet completely in the dark about where they were being held or who was holding them.

It was like darkness. Like knowing that there was a light somewhere but unable to find it in the shadows that engulfed them all. That was what it was like. Well, that’s what Jaebeom assumed it was like.

In reality, he had no idea. He watched Namjoon return home every night to check on the others and sleep for a maximum of two hours before he shipped himself back off to the hospital to be with Seokjin. He saw Hoseok trying to keep Taehyung and Jimin as calm as possible when all of them were spiralling in their own worlds of panic.

And he could do nothing. Nothing but thank the Lord that it hadn’t been his group that were targeted. That it hadn’t been Mark or Yugyeom who’d been snatched away from the arms of their leader.

He saw the pain that his friends were in. He felt the concern for Yoongi and Jungkook’s wellbeing. He understood the fear of the unknown. But never would he be able to experience what they were experiencing. Never.

So he helped as best as he possibly could. He and the rest of his group had practically moved in, ensuring that all four remaining BTS members were eating, sleeping and showering regularly. But no matter how many meals he set in front of them and how many times he pulled blankets over their unconscious bodies, he felt like it wasn’t enough.

“Hoseok?”

He called the boy’s name out of courtesy rather than question. He knew it was him crouched on the laundry room floor because it seemed to be where he always was. Cleaning. Cleaning and cleaning and cleaning, seemingly in the hopes that he could wash away all the pain.

“Hoseok, it’s late.”

It was actually early. Two in the morning to be precise. Jaebeom was awake only because Jimin had suffered another nightmare: one where he thrashed around in bed until he tied himself up in his sweat-sodden blankets, whimpering in fear.  

“I know,” Hoseok mumbled, his eyes visibly red and puffy even in the dim light. “I’m just …”

“Doing laundry?”

“Yeah.”

Jaebeom folded his legs beneath him and settled onto the floor, watching with sympathy and empathy and all those other “pathies” as Hoseok painstakingly picked his way through the cluster of clothes, separating them into delicates and colours and darks and lights.

“Hoseok, this is the fifth time this week.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Jaebeom pushed, shuffling a little closer when Hoseok didn’t show any sign of stopping his religious rituals. “I can ask Bambam or Youngjae or I could just do it myself. You need to sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Hoseok shot back, finally finishing the separation stage and beginning to load the bundles into the washing machine. “That’s all I’ve done for the past two weeks. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. I’m sick of sleeping.”

Jaebeom just watched, completely at a loss of what to do. This wasn’t normal. This couldn’t be normal. But then again, it wasn’t as if this particular course of events had happened to any of them before. They had no idea what was supposed to be normal.

“Hoseok …” He felt like he was just repeating that name, unable to come up with anything that would be of any use to this traumatised boy kneeling on the laundry room floor. “Do you … want to talk?”

“About what?” Hoseok snapped tersely, still refusing to look up. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Jaebeom bit his lip, wondering if prying any further was going to do more harm than good. He wanted Hoseok to be able to speak about what had happened to him – about how he’d been tied up and beaten in his own house – but he didn’t want to push him over the edge.

“You …” he started carefully, lifting his foot when he realised he was sitting on a sock Hoseok was looking for. “You went through a lot. You … I just want you to know that you can talk if you feel like it.”

“Well, I don’t!”

Jaebeom had never seen Hoseok angry before. It was a terrifying sight. His eyes were blazing and his mouth was stretched so thin that it was barely visible anymore and if Jaebeom wasn’t used to Jackson blowing his top every now and again then he would have leapt up and sprinted out of the room.

But just as quickly as the fury had appeared, it dissipated and Hoseok just seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging and his chin dropping to his chest and the hoodie in his hands coming to rest on his lap.

It was only when a stifled sob penetrated the silence that Jaebeom realised he was crying.

“Hoseok …”

“It’s Yoongi-hyung’s,” Hoseok mumbled, bringing his hand up to swipe at the moisture on his face. “This … It’s Yoongi-hyung’s.”

His hands were fisting in the material of the hoodie so tightly that his knuckles were turning as white as the walls around him and Jaebeom saw the first few tears drop from his face to splash onto the last traces he had of his big brother.

“Hoseok …”

He wasn’t capable of saying anything else. Why wasn’t he capable of saying anything else? He had to think of something. Anything. But Hoseok seemed to beat him to it.

“I watched.”

Jaebeom didn’t speak. He just waited. And tried not to vomit as he listened to the story he had somehow gone this far without hearing.

“I heard the bell and I heard somebody open the door and … and then there was just screaming. Jungkook, Jimin … I didn’t know what was happening. I … I thought they were being murdered or something and …”

His breath hitched and he cleared his throat, still clutching the hoodie like his life depended on it.

“I came … I came out of my room and I saw Yoongi-hyung pushing Tae into the bathroom and … and I tried to get to Kook and Chim and … and I … Seokjin-hyung … Seokjin-hyung was fighting them and I … I … I just stood there. I cou … I couldn’t move … I just stood there and I … I watched.”

Jaebeom didn’t want to hear this.

He was already imagining it, vivid as anything: Yugyeom and Youngjae yelling for help as men in masks came swarming into their house. Mark pushing Bambam into the bathroom, telling him to stay put and stay safe. Jackson fighting. Fighting as hard as he could to protect what was his.

Jaebeom didn’t want to hear this.

“They stabbed him. I saw the knife … I saw it go in … I heard hyung choking on his … own blood. I … I saw him sliding down the wall and … his eyes were so wide, Jaebeom. He … He was so scared and … there was blood … everywhere …”

Jaebeom saw it: Jackson. Jackson bleeding. Jackson choking. Jackson’s eyes searching for him. Jackson losing consciousness on the bedroom floor.

“And they grabbed Yoongi-hyung and … and that’s what made me … fight. Yeah. I … I saw them grab Yoongi-hyung and he … he was yelling and … fighting and … telling them to get away and I … I had to help, I … I couldn’t leave him … And … and … and they hit me …”

He was losing coherency. Jaebeom could barely make out a single word he was saying through the sobs that lathered his tone and clammed up his vocal cords and stuffed his nose with snot and saliva.

“That was all it took,” Hoseok whispered, bringing Yoongi’s hoodie up to his chest and hugging it like a plushie. “One hit and I went down. Just one. That was it.”

“One hit that gave you a concussion,” Jaebeom interjected finally, his voice croaky from listening for so long and trying to suppress his own tears. “Your brain was bleeding, Hoseok. Anyone – anyone – would have been knocked down.”

“And I watched,” Hoseok hissed, completely ignoring Jaebeom’s pathetic attempt at comfort. “They tied me up and I watched … Seokjin-hyung … I watched him bleed out. I watched him try and claw his way towards me. I watched him drift away and I … I thought … I thought … I thought I watched him die.”

It was too much. Jaebeom couldn’t help it. He was crying, great big salted dollops oozing from protesting eyelids only to be staunched by the fingers he furiously swiped across his cheek.

“It hurt …” Hoseok pushed, tightening his grip on Yoongi’s hoodie. “It hurt so bad and … I don’t know how long I sat there … how long I did … how long I did nothing but watch Seokjin-hyung … dying … before I … I finally passed out and … the next thing I know, Namjoon was shaking me and … and Yoongi-hyung and Jungkook … they were …”

He never finished that sentence, his grief and his guilt getting the better of him as he buried his face in his big brother’s sweater and used it to muffle his scream of anguish.

“I watched,” he whimpered, words smothered by the fabric. “I watched everything.”

“Hoseok …” There it was again. What kind of leader was he if he couldn’t come up with something more than just a name? “Hoseok, I don’t know what to say. I … I’m sorry, Hoseok. I’m so sorry. I … I can’t even imagine what you … what that was … I’m sorry.”

He wanted to hug him, to pull him against his chest and tell him that everything was going to be okay because they’d found Yuta and Donghyuck and that meant that they could find Yoongi and Jungkook, too.

But Yuta was comatose. Yuta was clinging to life by a strand of silk and Jaebeom hadn’t seen them himself but he’d heard that Donghyuck was practically mute. A mess. A mute, traumatised mess.

Nothing about that was okay.

“Please …” Hoseok whispered, drawing Jaebeom back to reality with a clumsy thump. “I get you want to help, Jaebeom, but you can’t. Just … please … leave me alone.”

Jaebeom obeyed. It was the only thing he could do to help somebody who was locked up so tightly inside his own head that crying like a baby and clutching a hoodie was all he seemed to be able to do.

He left Hoseok to his laundry because he understood now that Hoseok _needed_ to do laundry. He needed to wash away the memories.

The memories of Seokjin bleeding out right in front of him and of Yoongi screaming in protest as he was dragged down the stairs and Jungkook and Jimin crying for help and Taehyung hiding in the bathroom, alone and scared.

He called a taxi and went home, unable to be in that house any longer. He hated himself for being so weak and so selfish. There was nothing wrong with him and yet he was a blubbering mess when he was supposed to be supporting his friends.

He was pathetic.

The door gave surprisingly easy with the keys rammed into the lock and he stumbled over the threshold, shivering and shuddering and still sobbing despite the thirty-minute cab ride between BTS’ safehouse and his own dorm.

“Jaebeom?”

He barely even processed the mud he was tracking across the carpet as he stumbled forwards. The only thing he was focused on was Jackson’s body and the arms he wrapped around it, squeezing so tightly that it must have hurt but incapable of letting go.

“What’s wrong?” came the slightly strained wheeze but Jaebeom just shook his head, burrowing his face into Jackson’s shoulder. “Jaebeom, what’s happened? Is … Is it Yoongi-hyung? Or Jungkook?”

“Never go away,” Jaebeom hiccupped pitifully. “Never leave me.”  


	37. Act Like A Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Oh Sehun (EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Yixing! Miss you. Love you.

              “Oh, Kid … I’m going to make you regret the day you were born.”

Sehun could barely breathe. He felt like the rag between his teeth was smothering him, preventing him from inhaling, and he dug his heels into the ground in a desperate attempt to scoot away from Tattoo’s murderous gaze but his back met the wall.

“You just cost me a shit ton of money,” his captor growled, advancing until their faces were just a few inches apart. “With that little escapade of yours.”

If Sehun could apologise, he would’ve. He would have done absolutely anything to get those narrowed eyes and snarl of fury as far away from him as possible, but the only thing that came out of his stoppered mouth was an unintelligible whimper.

Donghyuck had escaped. Donghyuck had escaped. Donghyuck had escaped.

He repeated the words in his head over and over and over again because it was the only hope that he had. The only thing that he could hold on to so he wouldn’t go crazy with fear. Donghyuck had escaped and so therefore there was a chance.

There _had_ to be a chance.

“Now …” Tattoo hissed, reaching behind him to grab something that Sehun couldn’t see nor wanted to. “There’s a lesson you have to learn.”

He barely even had time to process the rope in Tattoo’s hand before it was tied around his neck and pulled tight – _really tight –_ pressing against his trachea and cutting off his air flow. He choked, eyes flooding with tears as he felt death approaching.

But then the initial panic subsided and he realised that the tether wasn’t quite as harsh as he’d first thought. It was there – undeniably, irrevocably – but he could breathe. Just about. So long as he schooled his lungs into taking deep, slow inhales.

“Act like a dog,” Tattoo snarled, reaching up above Sehun’s head and attaching the other end of the rope to something he couldn’t see. “Get treated like a dog.”

It must have been a coat hook or something similar because it pulled the rope taught. Not taught enough to suffocate him but taught enough to restrain him. To leash him. Like a dog.

“I have a question for you, Sehun.”

Was he going to torture him? Sehun had thought that he wouldn’t be touched. Wouldn’t be hurt. He’d actually been promised upon his arrival in this hell hole that not a finger would be laid upon his head.

So, what was the question going to be and how were they expecting to get an answer?

Tattoo’s hand shot out and Sehun tried to shy away but the leash kept him still so that his tormentor could pluck the gag from his mouth and leave it to hang uselessly around his neck.

“Which of you brainless fucking imbeciles thought it was a good idea to escape?”

Sehun swallowed the mouthful of saliva that had slowly been filling his jaw and kept his gaze resolutely forwards, fixated on Tattoo’s face.

He didn’t dare look to his left. He didn’t dare look at the person he knew he would incriminate if he answered truthfully.

He didn’t dare look at Jungkook.

“Let me make myself clear, Sehun,” Tattoo purred, shifting to the side and revealing what Sehun hadn’t been able to see beforehand. “I won’t hurt you if you don’t answer me. But I will hurt him.”

Minseok. Minseok was lying on the floor by the wall where he’d undoubtedly been dropped unceremoniously by whomever had carried him inside. His face was bruised, one of his eyes swollen shut and his ankle was still malformed and misshapen.

“So what’s it going to be, Sehun?”

He had to answer. He had to answer right now. To save Minseok. To save Minseok from more pain, more suffering, more torture when he’d already endured so much. He was weak. He was sick. He was hurt. He couldn’t protect himself.

But if Sehun told them it was Jungkook then they would go for Yoongi. Could he live with that? Knowing he had thrown another person under the knife to save his own hyung? If Yoongi died … If they killed him … Would he ever be able to forgive himself?

“Time’s up.”

What? He’d been on a time limit? Why hadn’t they told him? Why hadn’t they given him longer to make a decision? What were they going to do now? Torture Minseok? They couldn’t. He wouldn’t let them.

“No!” he cried out. “Wait, I …”

But the gag was already back in his mouth, muffling what was left of his sentence, and he hadn’t even known what he was going to say anyway. Whether he was going to confess or just try and stall for as long as possible.

“Let’s see how you feel after this,” Tattoo grunted, straightening up and nodding to Baldy whose ugly face stretched into a sadistic smile of glee.

No. No, no, no. Please. No. Please.

Sehun screamed, struggling against the ties around his wrists and trying to get up only to fall right back against the wall when his leash wrenched him back. He screamed until his throat was raw and his feet were scraped and he was choking on his own tears, but they didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

Baldy took a fistful of Minseok’s hair and dragged him into the middle of the room. The boy was clearly awoken by such a brutal action but it was obvious that he couldn’t get his limbs to move and take his weight. So he just let himself be dragged, bruised face screwed up in pain.

Sehun watched as his hyung was dropped roughly back onto the ground and a water bottle was emptied over his head, prompting a gasping splutter as Minseok tried to turn away from the icy assault that threatened to fill his lungs and drown him on dry land.

“Wakey, wakey,” Baldy taunted, tossing the empty bottle aside and landing a kick in his victim’s ribs. “You’re going to help us get Sehunnie to tell the truth.”

 _“Stop!”_ Sehun tried to screech but the only thing that came out was an incoherent grunt. _“Stop! Stop! Stop!”_

Minseok was wheezing, desperately trying to push himself up onto his hands and knees, but every time he almost made it, Baldy’s studded-toed boots would dig into his side. Or come down on his back. Or knock his arms out from beneath him.

“Please …” he gasped, fingers digging into the dusty floor as though trying to army crawl away. “Please … Stop …”

“Hey!” Muscles called and Sehun felt his intestines turn to lead at the sight of that huge monster of a man tossing Baldy a baseball bat. “Remember not to hit anything vital.”

“Don’t worry,” Baldy assured but his eyes were fixed on Sehun’s tear-stained face as he gave the bat a few experimental swings. “I’ll do my best.”

 _“Please!”_ Sehun begged, frantically trying to get up off the floor no matter how many times he was pulled back by his throat. _“Please! Stop! Please! Stop! Stop!”_

But, of course, nobody understood him. And nobody looked like they even cared. Everyone in that dingy, disgusting little room was completely focused on Minseok’s strangled scream of agony as the bat came down between his shoulder blades.

He was knocked flat, his stomach and chin colliding with the floor excruciatingly hard, and Sehun could see the blood that he spat from his mouth, probably as he bit his tongue. Or maybe as he haemorrhaged inside his broken body.

_“Please! Stop! Please! Stop! Stop!”_

Three times more the bludgeon came down and, at last, Minseok seemed to realise that his best chance of survival was to curl into a ball with his arms over his head and his knees pulled up to his stomach. And the assault continued.

Sehun could barely see through the tears but he still managed to catch Jungkook’s eye. The boy was tied in the same way, tethered to a coat hook embedded in the wall above his head, and he was watching the scene unfold in front of him with nothing short of horror on his face.

He was crying, too, whether out of fear or sympathy, Sehun couldn’t tell. But the look he gave the older boy was crystal clear: _Please don’t tell them. Please. They’ll kill Yoongi._

“Oops …”

Baldy’s snort of amusement pulled Sehun’s attention back to the centre of the room so fast that he could have sworn he got whiplash, or at least a friction burn from the rope around his throat.

He almost had a heart attack at the sight of that brute leaning over Minseok’s motionless body, curling his fingers in the beaten boy’s hair and pulling his head back to get a look at his face.

His nose was clearly broken, blood spurting from both nostrils. His mouth was hanging open, an awful gasping wheeze bubbling from split lips, and there was definitely something wrong with the shape of his jaw. Bruises painted almost every speck of skin, swelling was ballooning, blood was everywhere.

“I think I knocked him out.”

Sehun exploded in a cacophony of wordless pleas and sobs and begs, his struggle intensifying to the point where he was on the verge of choking himself but he couldn’t care less.

Minseok was a mess. A bruised, beaten and bloody mess and it was all because of him. It was all his fault. Him and his stupid, stupid, stupid mouth.

“You want me to keep going?” Baldy shot at Tattoo, as casually as if he were talking about making a cup of coffee. “He’s definitely out of it but I can still do a fair bit of damage without killing him.”

“No,” Tattoo dismissed and Sehun never imagined he’d ever be thankful for anything that bastard said. “I think he’s had enough. Right, Sehunnie?”

Sehun nodded frantically, mumbling behind the gag. He must look pathetic: a sobbing, illiterate mess, and if he had the mental capacity, he probably would have been embarrassed.

But these people had completely broken his mind. They’d shattered it into a thousand jagged fragments and he wasn’t sure it was even possible to find all the pieces ever again, let alone put them back together.

The moment Tattoo knelt down at his side and pulled the rag from between his lips, he started whimpering like a baby. Snot lathered his top lip and his eyes physically hurt from squeezing out so many tears.

“I’m sorry …” he babbled, his voice cracked and broken after so much screaming. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry … I’m sorry …”

“Shh,” Tattoo hushed him, stroking his greasy hair in an act that, to an outsider, would have looked comforting but Sehun knew it was just another way to taunt him. “It’s okay, Sehunnie. I know you didn’t mean to make us hurt Minseok.”

He’d made them hurt Minseok. He’d made them hurt Minseok. He’d made them hurt Minseok. It was his fault. It was all his fault because he’d made them hurt Minseok.

“Please …” he whispered, even though he knew he didn’t deserve to ask for anything. “Take him to a hospital … Please … Please …”

Tattoo hummed, as though deeply considering his captive’s request, and he was still threading his thick sausage fingers through Sehun’s hair, both of them watching Minseok’s unconscious body fighting for breath on the floor.

“I can definitely think about it.”

“Thank you,” Sehun garbled. “Thank you, thank you, thank you … Please … Thank you … I’m sorry …”

“But you’ll have to do something for me first.”

“Anything …” He didn’t even know where the words were coming from. All he was sure of was his desperation to appease them, to do whatever they wanted if it meant they would take Minseok to a hospital. “I’ll do anything … Anything … I swear … Just … Please …”

Tattoo leaned closer, so close that Sehun could feel the breath in the shell of his ear, and when the whisper brushed a feather light touch against his cheek, he barely even felt the shudder of disgust that would have rippled through him just a few hours previously.

“Tell me whose idea it was to escape.”

Somewhere. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he shouldn’t. That he would be condemning somebody else to the most unimaginable pain. But Minseok was all he cared about now.

Saving Minseok. Protecting Minseok. Not letting them hurt Minseok ever again.

And the word spilled from his lips without a second thought or a single doubt or even a moment’s hesitation.

“Jungkook.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last chapter wasn't very good so I just kind of regurgitated this one. Hope you liked it.


	38. Because Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Johnny Seo (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Yangyang!

              Johnny hung up the phone and let out the sigh of all sighs, hoping it would release every sliver of pain and suffering and heartbreak from his body but, of course, it did not.

He’d just had to tell Taeyong – who was still being pumped with fluids at the hospital back in Seoul – that Yuta was on the very brink of death and Donghyuck was nothing more than a broken, empty shell. Needless to say, it had been awful.

And he wasn’t really sure what he felt. Or what he was allowed to feel. Obviously, Donghyuck and Yuta were using all the pain and despair and trauma and it was like there wasn’t anything left for the rest of them.

But they were back. Johnny’s little brothers were back. And alive. Those were two things he’d never thought he’d be able to say and so he knew he should be happy.

There were still hostages in that hell hole, suffering and alone and with their loved ones begging for their safety back at home.

Yuta and Donghyuck were back. But at the same time, they weren’t.

Yuta could still die. He could slip away at any given moment or he could just remain comatose, no brain activity on the machine at his bedside, until the doctors told them that they had to pull the plug and let him go.

Johnny wasn’t sure which of those would be worse.

And Donghyuck … Donghyuck was shattered. A shadow of what he’d been before. How were they supposed to repair something that didn’t even resemble its former self anymore? How were they supposed to help him?

Just … how?

He cleared his throat, composed himself and then pushed open the door, immediately growing accustomed to the darkness that the heavy drapes cast the room into and the strong smell of disinfectant that seemed to be everywhere he went in this white-washed building.

“Hey,” he greeted, as softly as he could. “How’s it going?”

Stupid question. Such a stupid question.

“We’re just taking a break,” Mark filled in from where he was perched on the edge of the bed, his hand rubbing soothing circles between Donghyuck’s shoulder blades.

The boy was curled up in a ball, his arms wrapped around his legs and his face buried in his knees, shoulders shaking as he clearly tried his damn hardest not to give in to the tears that were breaching his borders little by little.

The police officer looked up and caught Johnny’s eye, displaying a soft smile of understanding. He was thankful they’d sent a woman and that she was dressed in civilian clothes. It created a calmer, more casual, atmosphere and hopefully didn’t make Donghyuck feel like he was being interrogated.

“Mark,” Johnny whispered as he settled on the other side of the bed and ran his fingers through Donghyuck’s hair. “Why don’t you go and grab a drink? I can stay for a bit.”

Mark hesitated but, at the end of the day, even he had to admit that he was exhausted. He’d barely left Donghyuck’s side since they’d arrived here and his body must have been craving sleep or caffeine or just something that wasn’t a hardbacked chair and the snivelling shell of his best friend.

“Donghyuck,” Johnny hummed as Mark sagged out of the room. “I’m right here, okay? You can take all the time that you need.”

Donghyuck raised his head, revealing puffy reddened eyes and dried tear tracks crusted against sallow skin. He wasn’t starving, not like Yuta was, but he had lost weight. Probably more due to the stress than anything else.

“Let’s …” he rasped, sounding like he’d drunk an entire liquor store the previous night. “Let’s keep going.”

“You’re so brave,” Johnny praised him, dropping a kiss into his hair. “You’re so amazing, Hyuckie. You’re doing so well.”

“You really are,” the police officer – Hyeji she’d said her name was – pitched in from the chair she was sitting in. “There is no rush here, Donghyuck. Just tell me what you can, alright?”

Donghyuck nodded, his eyes unfocused and glassy, and Johnny couldn’t help shuffling closer so he could wrap an arm around the boy’s shoulders. He was just a child. Just a little kid and he was already traumatised beyond imagination.

It was physically excruciating to watch what he’d become.

“You can say stop or take another break at any time, okay?” Hyeji added and Johnny mouthed a _thank you_ in her direction, just to show that he appreciated how hard she was trying. “Can you tell me how many men there were, Donghyuck?”

Johnny could feel the tension in Donghyuck’s shoulders and the way each and every one of his muscles seemed to stiffen at just the mention of the people who had hurt him.

“I don’t know,” he whispered hoarsely. “A lot. Maybe … maybe ten? I’m … I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay,” Hyeji comforted. “You’re doing really well. Did you hear any names that they used? Or codenames? Nicknames that they used to address each other?”

Donghyuck shook his head again, “No. They … They never used names.”

Johnny felt his heart sinking. Obviously, it wasn’t Donghyuck’s fault that his abductors had hidden their identity so well, but it did feel a little like they weren’t getting anywhere. Like they weren’t progressing far enough to help them find the rest of the hostages.

“Can you tell me what they looked like? Any distinguishing features any of them had? Even the smallest detail can help.”

Johnny tightened his grip on Donghyuck’s shoulders as he felt the boy starting to shake yet again. He could never imagine what his little brother was feeling at this moment. The fear, the pain … The guilt.

“The leader …” he whispered. “I think … I think he was the leader … He had a tattoo above his eye … Like … Like an arrowhead.”

“Okay,” Hyeji chirped, maybe a little too jovially as Johnny pressed another kiss into the kid’s hair. “That’s really good, Donghyuck. That’s really helpful. Anything else?”

Donghyuck was amazing. It would have taken someone really quite stupid not to see how difficult this entire process was for him, but he ploughed on. He gave the best descriptions that he could even though he was clearly terrified out of his mind.

It reminded Johnny of the old Donghyuck. Just a little.

But then came the question Johnny knew was going to have to surface at some point. The question that was going to tear Donghyuck’s protective exterior to shreds. The question everyone had been wondering since the beginning of this entire nightmare.

“You can take as long as you need,” Hyeji started. “But can you tell me what happened while you were there?”

Donghyuck didn’t burst into tears like Johnny had expected he might. He didn’t start hyperventilating or screaming or fighting to get away. He just sat there, glassy eyes fixated on something that probably didn’t exist, but he did stop breathing. Just momentarily.

Johnny squeezed his shoulder, trying to provide as much comfort as he could, but Donghyuck shook him off.

It hurt. Even if he understood the boy’s need not to be touched as he recounted those horrific memories, it still hurt to have his affection rejected by the kid he had missed for such a long time.

“They said they wouldn’t hurt us,” Donghyuck murmured, his voice barely audible even in the hospital room’s silence. “Me, Chan-hyung, Sehun-hyung and Jungkook-hyung. They promised they wouldn’t hurt us. But that … for every time we talked back or we … broke the rules or … they called it ‘playing the hero’ … every time we did that, they … they hurt … the hyungs. Yuta-hyung … He got hurt every time I … I didn’t do what I was told. They … they burned him and … and they hit him … and … and … his hand …”

The hand. Johnny had seen the hand. If he could even call it that now. The fingers were smashed beyond recognition, Yuta’s fist wrapped in bloodied bandages that were stained with all the other foul-smelling fluids that seemed to be leaking from his wounds.

He still wasn’t stable enough to be operated on, but the doctor had said that the infection was spreading and they were running out of time.

“They … They made me break his hand … I didn’t want to … I swear, hyung, I didn’t want to!”

His eyes flickered up to Johnny’s face for the first time since the older boy had entered the room, his head shaking back and forth as he sobbed his plea for forgiveness.

“They made me … I … I didn’t want it … I swear … Hyung, I didn’t want to hurt him …”

“I know,” Johnny soothed, wanting desperately to reach out but, at the same time, wanting to respect the boundaries Donghyuck had set up just a few minutes prior. “You have nothing to be sorry for, okay, Hyuck? It was not your fault.”

He wished he could make him believe it.

“Donghyuck …” Hyeji interjected, and Donghyuck flinched violently, as though he’d forgotten she was still in the room. “Are you okay to continue?”

Johnny would have said no. Johnny would have wanted to give him time to rest, but Donghyuck seemed determined to finish now that he’d started.

“They … They did things,” he whispered. “To the hyungs. They … They kept them tied up but … but we were free and they told us we couldn’t let them go and … and we didn’t … They had their faces all wrapped up in tape and we … we couldn’t let them go … For so long, they couldn’t see or speak or move and we … we just let it happen …”

Johnny’s heart was breaking. In every way, shape and form, it was shattering into a thousand tiny pieces and he wanted to hold his baby but at the same time he didn’t and he wanted to run to Yuta’s side and tell him he loved him but at the same time he wanted to stay and everything was too complicated and he could barely find the room to breathe.

And then he reminded himself that Donghyuck was the one who had suffered. Whatever pain Johnny was feeling, it was nothing compared to that.

“They starved them,” Donghyuck pushed on, his entire body quivering as his arms tightened around his knees. “They wouldn’t let them eat … They only let us give them a drink every … I think it was every other day and … and they were so sick … Minseok-hyung … Minseok-hyung had a seizure and Y … Yoongi-hyung was so frail and they were going to die … They were going to die if we didn’t do something and I … We had to do something or they … they were going to die …”

It was like he was stuck in a loop. A broken record player doomed to repeat the same words over and over and over again until they burrowed into his mind and never resurfaced for the rest of his life.

“Donghyuck,” Johnny called out, unable to remain silent any longer. “Donghyuck, it’s alright. Hyung’s here. Hyung’s here.”

But Donghyuck didn’t look like he could hear him. His shoulders were shaking, his eyes were blown wide, his tears were flowing with the force of a tsunami and he looked as though he were on the verge of passing out with the way he was breathing.

“Hyuck? Hyuck, I’m right here.”

He hugged him. He had to. There was no way he could just sit and watch. He put his arms around that terrifyingly rigid body and stroked the hair that hadn’t been washed in over two and a half weeks and it was like Donghyuck was in another world.

“They made me …” he was whimpering, starting to rock backwards and forwards ever so slightly as he repeated his confession. “They made me and I … Hyung, I didn’t want to … I didn’t want to hurt him … Hyung, I’m sorry … I’m so sorry …”

“It’s not your fault,” Johnny tried to tell him, but he knew it was having no effect. “Hyuck, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. You didn’t hurt Yuta.”

He pressed his lips against Donghyuck’s temple and kept them there, closing his eyes and occasionally making gentle shushing noises as Donghyuck practically vibrated in his grip.

The boy was clinging to his hyung’s arm now. Clinging with both hands and with all ten fingernails digging into the skin and leaving little crescent-shaped indentations, but Johnny didn’t care.

He would cut his own heart out if it meant he could stop all of this.

“I’m sorry!” Donghyuck sobbed, his heels digging into the blankets beneath his feet and pushing them to the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, hyung! I’m so sorry!”

Johnny no longer knew whether Donghyuck was talking to him or to Yuta.

“Donghyuck,” Hyeji interrupted, getting out of her seat and carefully perching on the edge of the bed. “Donghyuck, my name is Hyeji. I’m a police officer and I’m going to protect you, okay?”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“You’re in a hospital in Incheon, okay, Donghyuck? It’s 3pm in the afternoon on Tuesday, May 16th 2019\. I’m here with you and so is Johnny. There’s nobody else. It’s just us three, Donghyuck. Just us three.”

Her words seemed to be working. Donghyuck was still fighting for breath, still sobbing his heart out, still clutching at Johnny’s arm like his life depended on it, but his eyes lifted to her face, the first indication that he was still in this reality.

“Your Yuta-hyung is in this hospital, too,” Hyeji kept going, clearly encouraged by the reaction she was getting. “And he’s alive because of you. Because you escaped and you brought the police back in time to save him. He’s alive because of you, Donghyuck. Because you were so brave and so strong and so determined to protect him. Yuta is alive because of you.”

Donghyuck’s breathing was slowing down and it was only then that Johnny realised he was crying himself, great big fat tears rolling over his cheekbones as he sat on this bed and cradled the boy with the broken mind.

“None of those people are ever going to come near you again,” Hyeji continued, her voice getting softer as Donghyuck’s attack got quieter. “You or Yuta. Both of you are safe and surrounded by people who love you and will look after you and protect you, okay?”

“Safe …” Donghyuck slurred, his head falling back against Johnny’s chest. “Safe … Safe …”

“That’s right,” Hyeji agreed. “You’re safe here. Your hyung is going to keep you safe.”

Her gaze flickered upwards to Johnny and the older boy cleared his throat so his voice would come out as clear as hers was, “I’m going to keep you safe, Hyuck. Me and Mark. We’re going to keep you both safe.”

They stayed with him, repeating those words over and over until he eventually succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep in Johnny’s arms.

“Do you have what you need?” Johnny whispered once the boy’s breathing evened out. “Will you need to come back and do this again?”

He wasn’t sure Donghyuck would be able to take it.

“I don’t think I’ll get anything else out of him,” Hyeji admitted, shaking her head solemnly as she got to her feet and gathered her belongings. “He’s given us a few things to go on so we’ll do our best, but I don’t think probing him for more answers will do anyone any good.”

“Thank you,” Johnny exhaled gratefully, bringing his hand up to finger the locks of Donghyuck’s hair. “Thank you so much.”

“You look after him,” she ordered sternly just before the door closed behind her and Johnny was left alone with the dying sun.  


	39. JK Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Jeon Jungkook (BTS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Jimin!

           “Jungkook.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, hands clenching into fists from where they were taped behind his back, and tears dribbling down his cheeks. He’d known as soon as they’d started beating Minseok that Sehun was going to give him up. He’d known and he’d understood.

But there was still the sharp pang of betrayal in his gut at the sound of his senior whimpering his name, handing him over, throwing him beneath the bus to save his own hyung.

Throughout this whole nightmare, he’d told himself that he’d made the right decision. That they’d had to at least try to escape or they were all going to die. But now that he could feel Tattoo crouching down beside him, he was starting to wonder if he’d ever been more wrong.

“Jungkook,” came the soft purr in his ear. “I might have known.”

A hand fisted in his hair and, without warning, his head was wrenched back at an excruciating angle, the rope around his neck digging mercilessly into his skin.

His eyes snapped open instinctively and he was met with that disgusting face, half concealed by a mask, and yet still managing to instil the most intense terror within him at the sight of it. Those thick black markings inked into his skin in the shape of an arrowhead would forever haunt his nightmares.

“What were you thinking, Jungkook?” Tattoo asked softly, peering down at his captive as though deeply intrigued rather than inherently furious. “What made you believe you could outsmart every single one of us? You think we’re dumb? You think you know better? Is that it? JK knows best?”

Jungkook concentrated on breathing in through his nose, controlling his anger and his fear, and if he weren’t gagged then he would probably have spat some insult or sarcastic slur.

“I think an apology is in order,” Tattoo declared with one of those repulsive smirks. “After all, you have just cost me approximately ₩100 billion.”

If Jungkook weren’t so caught up in his own dread at what was to come if he didn’t – because he wouldn’t – apologise, then he would have wondered how he could have possibly lost his captor so much money. The ransom had only been 4 billion. And that was for all eight of them.

“In your own time, Jungkook.”

The rag was tugged from his mouth and left to hang around his neck, strings of saliva dribbling over the lips that he kept pressed firmly shut. He was not going to say anything to these people.

Tattoo waited, eyebrows raised, but Jungkook just glared back at him with as much hatred as he could muster up in one look. He hated this man. With everything he possessed, he despised him.

“I’m glad I did what I did,” he croaked, his voice raw from lack of use. “And at some point in the very near future, I’m going to kill you.”

“Hey,” Tattoo called over his shoulder as he straightened up, glancing back at his followers lined up against the wall and beckoning Jacket forwards. “You said you wanted this one, right?”

Jungkook’s heart sped up at the memory of his last encounter with that man. The man he’d knocked to the ground so he could beat him with a broken chair leg. The man he’d threatened to kill. The man who’d pinned him to the ground as he tied him up and whispered promises of bloodshed and pain in his ear.

But he kept his expression cool and neutral, determined not to show them any fear. He knew what was going to happen anyway. He’d known from the moment he’d been overpowered in that kitchen.

There was nothing he could do to stop the torture that was coming Yoongi’s way but, if he knew his hyung at all, he was positive that Yoongi wouldn’t want him to grovel for forgiveness. Yoongi would want him to be strong.

“I want him broken,” Tattoo ordered as Jacket stepped up beside him. “He’s got too much spirit. I want it gone.”

Jacket’s face lit up with an almost childlike glee, “Consider it done.”

“You’re going to get caught!” Jungkook shouted, panic overtaking him as Jacket stooped down to grab Yoongi around the throat. “There is no chance of you ever getting away so what do you get from this? Money? All of that will be gone when you end up in prison! Why not just take off while you’ve still got the chance?”

He was stalling. Unsuccessfully, too. Jacket was completely oblivious to his cries, throwing Yoongi’s unconscious body to the ground right at his little brother’s feet.

“I think that’s enough from you,” came Tattoo’s voice from his right and Jungkook noticed, too late, that the leader of these sadistic bastards was kneeling back down beside him. “My friend needs quiet while he works.”

The gag was back in his mouth before he could protest, muffling whatever words he came up with next, and he was just left there, immobilised and forced to watch as Jacket pulled Yoongi up off the floor by his shirt collar and smacked him round the face.

The boy jerked, an instinctive groan of pain bubbling up his throat, and one of his hands reached upwards in an attempt to fend off his attacker but his wrists were still bloody from the ties he’d been bound with for so long and his aim was pathetically uncoordinated.

“Look who decided to join us,” Jacket grinned, dropping his victim back to the ground and watching with a sick sense of satisfaction as Yoongi coughed and spluttered, rolling onto his stomach as though trying to get away. “I thought you were going to miss the fun.”

Jungkook caught his hyung’s eye.

He saw the bruises on his face, the blood, the abrasions, the lacerations, the burns that spotted his collar bones and the way his skeleton was pushing up against his skin. He saw the suffering his insubordination had inflicted and he saw the fear that he wasn’t able to protect him from.

Yoongi’s lips moved as Tattoo pressed a knee into the small of his back, pinning him to the dusty floor, but Jungkook couldn’t hear what he’d said. Or whether he’d said anything at all.

It might have been a plea for help. It might have been a goodbye. An apology, a word of forgiveness, just some other final message. Jungkook never found out.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness what was going to happen next, but Tattoo’s fingers fastened on his chin and turned his head back into the right direction.

“Watch,” he hissed, and Jungkook obeyed through fear and guilt alone. “You did this. Your arrogance and your stupidity. That’s what led to this. That’s why we’re doing this. To show you that your actions have consequences.”

Tattoo kept gripping his face, forcing him to see the moment that Jacket curled his fingers into Yoongi’s shirt and ripped it down the back, exposing the individual vertebrae in his spine and the curve of each rib.

A strangled sob fought its way out of Jungkook’s mouth before he could stop it, his tears flowing freely without anything to prevent them. He watched Yoongi trying to struggle, trying to roll over and push his attacker off him, but the fight was short-lived. He was too weak and he knew it.

“This is what happens when you disobey the rules, JK,” Tattoo continued to feed whispers into his ear. “It’s better for you if you learn that now because I can assure you that your future owner won’t be as lenient as me.”

Jacket still had his knee pressed into Yoongi’s back as he fished two things from his pocket: a lighter and a switchblade. He looked Jungkook right in the eye as he brought the two instruments together, allowing the flame to lick at the metal until it was virtually glowing with the heat.

“Eyes open,” Tattoo warned, still with his hand closed on Jungkook’s chin to keep his head facing forwards. “Eyes open the entire time, Jungkook.”

The lighter was extinguished, tossed aside, and then Jacket was leaning forwards, raising the knife, bowing over Yoongi’s exposed skin with a glint of sadistic excitement in his eyes.

And Jungkook tried to apologise. He tried to say he was sorry. He tried to break free of the tape on his wrists and ankles but everything was useless. He wasn’t strong enough. And not only was he not strong enough but he’d also caused this.

Because he thought he knew best.

Yoongi’s face contorted into an expression of pure agony, eyes screwing shut and teeth clamping down on lips as he frantically tried to bite back the scream that slipped free the moment the burning knife touched his body.

“Eyes open,” Tattoo reminded Jungkook as the kid screwed his lids shut in an attempt to hide from the sound of his hyung’s pain. “I want you to watch, Jungkook.”  

He couldn’t. The tears in his eyes were blinding him and maybe that was a good thing because the very last thing he wanted to see was Jacket carving chunks in his big brother’s back.

Yoongi was clearly in agony, legs kicking weakly and fingernails scratching at the floorboards, strangled breaths tearing his airway in half. Blood was rolling down his sides, staining the material of the T-Shirt that was hanging off him, ripped and frayed.

“You made us do this,” Tattoo pushed on as Jungkook fought against his bindings with everything he had. “You made us hurt Yoongi. You made us hurt Minseok. This is all because of you. They’re in pain because of you. They’re bleeding because of you.”

And then came the sickest blow of them all.

“Yuta is dead because of you.”

It was too much. Jungkook couldn’t inhale, choking on the rag between his teeth and the saliva building up in his throat as he was unable to swallow it back down, but he didn’t even care.

The only thing that existed was Yoongi. Yoongi’s pathetic attempts at a fight, Yoongi’s choked cries of agony, Yoongi’s blood oozing from the jagged wounds Jacket was engraving in his spine.

One wrong move, one push too deep, and he could sever a nerve. He could paralyse him. He could kill him. But as Jungkook was watching, he wondered if that would be better. Because anything – _anything_ – was better than this.

“Stop …” Yoongi whispered, all energy gone and all hope of escape lost. “Please … Jungkook … Stop …”

He was a hair’s breadth away from passing out, but, of course, he wasn’t even allowed that luxury. Jacket’s fingers knotted themselves in his hair and gave it one harsh, brutal tug that effectively snapped him back to reality.

“No falling asleep just yet,” the torturer tormented as he returned to his work, seemingly relishing in Yoongi’s sobbing pleas for mercy. “Look at Jungkookie for me. Look at the person who wanted me to do this to you.”

Jungkook would have died. He would have traded places. He would have carved hieroglyphics into his own skin if that was what it would take to get that knife away from his hyung.

He’d forgotten why he hadn’t just begged for forgiveness when he’d had the chance. He couldn’t remember what had been going through his head when he’d ordered the others to attempt escape. He had no recollection of any hope or faith he’d ever had because this was all his fault.

Yoongi and Minseok’s torture.

Yuta’s murder.

The rest of NCT’s grief, and the world’s, for that matter.

All of it. His fault. All of it. Because of him.

“All done!” Jacket declared as he climbed off his tapestry and wiped his bloodied hands on his jeans. “I must say I’m quite proud of that.”

Yoongi had passed out. Finally. His breathing was harsh, dragging, wheezing, and, from what Jungkook could see, his back had been reduced to ribbons of mangled skin and muscle tissue. It looked … horrific.

Tattoo finally released Jungkook and stepped over to inspect his subordinate’s work, humming in approval as he clapped Jacket on the back, “Not bad.”

Jungkook was too exhausted to raise his head. He slumped backwards against the wall behind him, eyes throbbing from crying, lips bleeding from biting down on them, blank gaze fixated on his hyung’s motionless, mutilated body.

“You want to see, Jungkook?” Tattoo asked, not waiting for a response as he knelt beside Yoongi and grabbed his shoulder. “This was the only way we could think of to show you what your decisions can cause.”

Jungkook should have closed his eyes. Even if they beat him, even if they choked him, even if they cut his fingers off one by one, he never should have looked at what they showed him.

Tattoo pushed Yoongi onto his side, revealing the mess of skin cells that had once been smooth and pristine. And although there was a terrifying amount of blood, Jungkook could make out the shapes – the words – that were etched into his hyung’s body, destined to remain there forevermore.

 

**_JK KNOWS BEST_ **

 


	40. Liver For A Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Kim Junmyeon (Suho of EXO)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Yuta!

            “We need to talk.”

Junmyeon opened his eyes and blinked until his vision was cleared of the splodges and bursts of light that assaulted his optic nerves, just about making out the three people who were lowering themselves into chairs around his bed.

Knowing that he wasn’t exactly in a place to argue, he tried to slide his elbows beneath his body and lever himself into a sitting position but Donghae’s hand appeared on his shoulder, gently guiding him back down against the pillows.

“Don’t sit up,” his senior instructed him. “We just need you to listen to us.”

Junmyeon nodded wordlessly, his mouth too dry and his throat too sore from the intubation tube that had only recently been removed to actually respond verbally.

He knew he must look quite a sight: skin tinged yellow, eyes heavy-lidded, lips chapped, an oxygen cannula threaded beneath his nose. If any of his fans saw him now, they would instantly renounce ever supporting him in the first place, but this was the price he had to pay for his stupidity.

“You’re going to die.”

Junmyeon’s eyebrows shot up and he turned his head sluggishly towards where Yixing sat on the other side of his bed, Kyungsoo at his shoulder.

“Love you, too, Xing,” he croaked, needing to interject some humour into an atmosphere he knew was going to get very, very dark very, very soon.

No one looked remotely amused.

“This isn’t funny,” Donghae chastised and Junmyeon’s weak smirk slid off his face as quickly as soap through wet hands. “You’re in end-stage liver failure and you’re not getting any better. The doctors have given you a month at the most before you either get septic or fall into a coma. And then you’re gone for good.”

Junmyeon didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t show any kind of reaction because all of this was something he already knew. He was well aware of the fact that he was dying, that his body was shutting down even as the doctors scrambled to save it.

But there was no use crying over something he could do nothing about.

“So what is this?” he rasped, gesturing towards the three of them slouched around his bedside, looking as though they were a hair’s breadth away from having identical breakdowns. “An intervention? A goodbye? A lecture on how all of this is my fault because I already know that?”

Kyungsoo closed his eyes, a long breath leaving his lips and Junmyeon saw Yixing glancing over at him before he reached across the space between them and squeezed the younger boy’s hand, clearly trying to comfort him in his moment of vulnerability.

And Junmyeon suddenly felt horrifically guilty. They were suffering because of his actions and yet he was making jokes like he didn’t even care for their feelings at all. When had he become such a terrible leader?

“You’re blood type AB negative,” Yixing muttered, averting his eyes from the boy lying in the bed. “That means the chances of any of us being able to donate to you is almost zero.”

“I wouldn’t want you to donate any …” Junmyeon started before Donghae gave him a look that clearly said, _shut your fucking mouth,_ and he clamped his lips together.

“And you …” Yixing’s tongue caught in his throat and he coughed before he continued. “You tried to kill yourself so they’re probably not going to put you on the transplant list. They don’t do that with people who are self-destructive.”

Junmyeon winced at the bluntness for the first time, knowing that Yixing was being harsh because it was the only way he knew how to cope with everything that was happening, but unable to deny that the words hurt.

“In short,” Donghae took over as Yixing seemed unable to go on. “Your prospects are pretty bleak, Junmyeon. But there is one person we know who has the same blood type as you and we haven’t approached them yet because … well …”

He petered off, glancing down at his hands in his lap as though he were ashamed of what he was saying and as Junmyeon looked at the other two, he noticed similar expressions ghosting over their pale, exhausted faces.

It took him about three seconds to catch on and, when he did, nothing and no one could stop him from bolting up into a sitting position with his eyes blown wide and his mouth open in horror.

“No!” he yelled, making all three of his visitors jump in their seats. “Are you … Are you insane? What the fuck is wrong with you? No way!”

“Junmyeon,” Donghae started, reaching forwards placatingly only to withdraw when Junmyeon glared at him with every ounce of hatred he could muster. “You have to stay calm.”

“Stay calm?” Junmyeon shrieked, head whipping backwards and forwards as he waited for somebody to tell him that this was a joke. A sick, cruel and twisted joke. “How can you even … No! I’m not consenting to this! Absolutely not!”

“So what?” Kyungsoo hissed, speaking up for the first time since the conversation had begun. “We’re just supposed to let you die without even exploring the options that we have?”

“Yes!” Junmyeon shouted, almost laughing at the sheer audacity of it all. “If that’s the alternative then yes, you let me fucking die! I made my bed and now I’m lying in it! Don’t you dare bring him into this!”

He couldn’t remember ever feeling so furious. He’d thought he knew these people. Yixing, Donghae, Kyungsoo. They were good. But what they were suggesting, what they wanted him to ask of that child was just beyond disgusting.

“So Minseok-hyung and Sehun don’t even deserve a chance of seeing you ever again?” Kyungsoo raged on, unshed tears glistening in his eyes as he glowered at his bedridden leader. “They’re supposed to come home after everything they’ve been through and find out that you died because you were too stubborn to even ask a simple …”

“What part of this is simple?” Junmyeon exploded, the heart monitor beside him spiking dangerously as his blood pressure continued to skyrocket. “He is a child. A fucking child! And he’s been tortured and manipulated and gone through more than we can ever imagine but you want me to disregard all of that and order him to give me part of his liver?”

The worst part of all of this was that Junmyeon knew with every ounce of his being that if they really did proceed with this then Lee Donghyuck would consent in a heartbeat.

That was just the kind of person he was.

“I’m not putting him through anymore trauma,” Junmyeon declared. “I did this to myself. This is my fault and nobody else’s so if I’m going to die then let me die. I brought it on …”

“It’s not your fault!” Kyungsoo screamed, leaping out of his chair so forcefully that it fell over backwards with a loud clatter. “It’s mine! This is my fault! I pushed you to this and now I’m trying to save you but you won’t even let me!”

Junmyeon didn’t know what to say, stunned into silence by the tears that were streaming down Kyungsoo’s cheeks as he pointed a finger at his leader and screeched everything that had been concealed inside of him for so long.

“You’re okay with dying? Great! That’s fucking wonderful! You don’t have to suffer anymore and you get hailed a hero but all you’d be is selfish! Because what about me, hyung? What about me? If you die then I have to live with the fact that I killed you and that is not fair, Junmyeon! That’s not fucking fair!”

He staggered backwards, his body seemingly succumbing to exhaustion or shock or whatever else was wrong with him, and the only thing that stopped him from crumpling to the floor was Yixing’s arms fastening around his chest.

“Breathe,” he soothed, pulling Kyungsoo against him and cupping the back of his head so the younger boy was forced to bury his face in his hyung’s neck. “Breathe, Kyungsoo. Calm down. Come on, breathe.”

Junmyeon didn’t realise he was crying until Donghae handed him a tissue and, even then, he was too dumbstruck to take it. His eyes were fixated on the two bodies intertwined in the middle of his hospital room, Yixing trapping Kyungsoo’s arms to his side so he couldn’t push him away and leaving the kid with no choice but to accept his fate and just sob his heart out.

“It’s not fair …” he heard him whimper. “It’s not fair … It’s not fair … It’s not fair …”

“I know,” Yixing agreed, catching Junmyeon’s eye over the top of Kyungsoo’s head. “I know it’s not.”

Donghae got to his feet, his joints cracking and his mouth curling in a grimace as he wearily sidled around the end of the bed and reached out to clasp Yixing’s shoulder, speaking in nothing more than a whisper.

“Take him home and get him to rest.”

Yixing nodded, giving Junmyeon one last unreadable look before he snaked an arm around Kyungsoo’s shoulders and steered him – stumbling and unsteady – from the room, the door swinging shut in their wake and sealing Junmyeon in his own bubble of self-hatred.

“I know what we’re asking,” Donghae murmured, still staring at the spot where the other two had disappeared. “I know that it’s horrible and I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“Then why even suggest it?” Junmyeon forced out, swatting furiously at the moisture on his face. “If you really feel the same as me then you wouldn’t have even considered this in the first place.”

“Because you’re dying, Junmyeon.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“And there are people here who need you. People you’re going to leave behind. People who are never going to get a chance to say goodbye to you. Don’t let yourself die because of a stupid mistake you made while you were drunk.”

Junmyeon’s voice shook as he spoke, hands trembling in his lap and heart rate projected to the room by the frequency with which the machine beside him beeped, but the words he uttered were ones that he needed to be free of.

“I don’t want to die,” he ground out weakly. “Taking those pills was … it was an accident. And you’re here trying to tell me that I’m not thinking about the consequences of what I’ve done when it’s all I can fucking think about, hyung. I’ve told Kyungsoo it’s not his fault. I’ve told Yixing he didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing more I can do to make this right.”

“You can live.”

“I can’t!” Junmyeon cried, a fresh tidal wave of tears spilling from his eyelids as he brought a fist down on the mattress beside him. “Donghyuck … He may be the perfect match to be my donor but I can’t ask him to do this. I can’t. He’s barely even holding onto his sanity and you think I won’t have Taeyong coming for my blood if I ask his little brother to go under a knife because I destroyed my own body?”

“You haven’t even asked …” Donghae interjected, his eyes wide and pleading.

“It doesn’t matter,” Junmyeon whispered, falling back against his pillows and closing his eyes as exhaustion finally hit him. “I don’t want to die, hyung. I don’t want to leave them. But there is no way I’m going to put that child through any more suffering. There’s just no way, hyung. Please leave it at that.”

 _Please let me die._ That’s what he was saying without using the actual words. _Please don’t make this any harder and just let me die because I deserve it._

And it was true. Everything that was happening to him was a result of his own actions. He didn’t deserve to be alive, he didn’t deserve to be saved and he most definitely didn’t deserve to take another person’s organs into his own body.

This is how his story was going to end.

And he could make peace with that.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I was gone so long and that this chapter is so short. I had a family bereavement and I kind of just shut down for a few days. I didn't look on my account and when I did, I found all the comments you guys left so I tried my best to come out with something even if it's not as good as it could be. Thank you everyone who commented and I hope this is okay :)


	41. Close Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Yoon Jeonghan (SEVENTEEN)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Winwin!

**TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING!**

 

 

              When Jeonghan awoke, it was to screams.

It took him several moments to process where he was, hard wooden floorboards pressing up against his aching body and clumps of dust tickling his nose and eyelashes as he fought to pry his lids apart.

His head felt like it was in an iron press, temples throbbing excruciatingly, the burns dotted over his collarbones stung every time a breath of air passed over them and the ligature wounds on his wrists were still oozing and raw.

But somebody was screaming and that was the motivation he needed to open his eyes and process the hellhole around him, just to prove to himself that it wasn’t Chan who had his mouth stretched wide in a shriek of agony.

It wasn’t Chan. It was Minseok.

Minseok whose bones were being shattered beneath the force of a baseball bat. Minseok whose hair and clothes were already stained scarlet with blood. Minseok who was desperately trying to crawl away from his attacker even though anyone could see it was fruitless.

Jeonghan spotted Sehun struggling against some kind of leash that kept him bound to a hook on the wall, eyes wide and gagged mouth emitting the most gut-wrenching screams as he was forced to watch the torture unfolding in front of him.

And Jeonghan looked for Chan. It may be selfish but it had gotten to the point where he no longer cared for anybody other than that boy. Everyone else could die so long as Chan could live. So long as Chan could get home and be safe.

So when his eyes locked on the hunched figure of his little brother, tethered to the wall by his throat with his hands bound behind his back, he started moving.

It was agony. He reached out, fingernails digging into the floor in the hope that they would give him some purchase to drag himself forwards.

It felt like his ribs were being crunched beneath his terrifyingly reduced weight as he crawled across the dust on his stomach, biting down on his lips to keep himself from crying out.

They were watching him. He could feel their gazes burning into his back, but they seemed not to deem him a threat because they let him be. And he didn’t blame them. It wasn’t like he was strong enough to stand, let alone put up a fight.

Chan looked up, catching the movement in the corner of his eye, and when he saw his hyung slowly heaving himself towards him, he shook his head frantically. Clearly, he was afraid of some kind of punishment but Jeonghan wasn’t. Not even slightly.

They were going to torture him no matter what he did now.

By the time he reached Chan, Minseok was already unconscious and Tattoo was kneeling beside Sehun, hissing something that sounded malicious and manipulative even though Jeonghan couldn’t quite distinguish the words.

He used the last of his strength to push himself into a somewhat sitting position before the remaining dregs of energy were drained from his bones and he sagged against Chan’s chest, resting his head on the maknae’s shoulder and reaching up to pull the gag from his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing Chan whispered, his tears dripping into Jeonghan’s hair. “I’m so sorry, hyung. I’m so, so sorry.”

Jeonghan shushed him, closing his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see what they were doing to Yoongi across the room and hooking his arms around Chan’s neck so he could give him the closest thing to a hug that he could manage.

“It’s not your fault.” He hated the sound of his own voice. It was croaky and raspy and he was supposed to be a goddamn singer but, then again, that path had been closed off long ago. “You did the right thing. It’s okay.”

“But they’re going to hurt you,” Chan whispered back, his entire body trembling in his hyung’s grip. “They’re going to hurt you and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.”

“I know,” Jeonghan breathed, too exhausted to come up with a better response. “But it’s okay. We’re okay.”

“I’m so sorry …”

“Dino.” He heard the little gasp of shock that Chan emitted at the sound of his stage name. “Dino … Whose baby are you?”

It was the only thing he could think of when his mind was shutting down and his body was failing and he was too weak and fatigued to feel the terror he should have felt at the looming prospect of what these people were going to do to him.

But it had the desired effect.

“Jeonghan-hyung’s,” Chan gasped out immediately, the quickest response he had ever given to that question. “I’m Jeonghan-hyung’s baby.”

Jeonghan hummed in acknowledgement, nuzzling closer into the crook of the boy’s neck and screwing his face up at the sound of Yoongi’s agonised cries.

“My baby,” he whispered, barely even audible at this point. “Always my baby. Remember that, okay?”

“Okay …”

There was silence. A silence that was too loud. Far, far too loud. And it took Jeonghan a humiliatingly long time to realise that Yoongi had passed out and every person in the room who wasn’t tied up or unconscious was looking at him and Chan.

He tightened his grip, the ghost of his first tear dribbling down his cheek.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered quietly. “Close your eyes and don’t open them, Chan. No matter what happens, no matter what they threaten to do, don’t you dare open your eyes, okay?”

“Hyung …”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good boy,” Jeonghan breathed, instinctively bringing his knees up towards his chest as Tattoo started moving across the room towards him. “There’s my good boy. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Tattoo crouched down in front of them, his masked face tilted to the side and deadened eyes narrowed as he inspected the two people before him. Jeonghan would have spat some insult if it weren’t for the hand that shot out and grasped his chin, terrifying him into silence.

“Well, shit …” the monster muttered, turning Jeonghan’s head from side to side as though inspecting him. “Why the fuck didn’t we choose you? You’d sell for millions the moment that we put you up.”

Jeonghan tried to pull his face from Tattoo’s grip but the fingernails digging into his chin were too strong and all he was capable of doing was clinging to Chan’s neck and praying to God that his little brother was keeping his eyes closed.

“Shame …” the captor mused, releasing his victim and straightening up. “You’re too roughed up to be of any use now.”

And for a moment – just a moment – Jeonghan thought that was it. He thought that he’d gotten off. That maybe he was going to make it out of here without any more burns or broken bones. That maybe he was going to survive after all.

But then he saw Tattoo stop in front of Muscles – the gigantic man with the most gruesome expression of anticipation who Jeonghan suspected had been the one to lick his face all those weeks ago in that basement – and glance over his shoulder with an amused spark in his eyes.

“You still want him?” he asked and Muscles unfolded his arms, cracking his knuckles one by one.

“Sure do.”

“Take as long as you like,” Tattoo smirked, and Jeonghan screwed his eyes shut as he turned his face into Chan’s neck with tears streaming down his cheeks at the realisation of what was about to happen. “He’s all yours.”

The door creaked and there were footsteps. Lots of them. Retreating. Leaving. Abandoning Jeonghan and his friends with that disgusting brute of a guy who was probably preparing for one of the worst crimes known to man.

There was the click of a lock. There was no escape.

“Chan, close your eyes.”

 

**IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED AND YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY THEN STOP READING NOW!**

 

A hand fastened around his ankle and a terrified yelp slipped free of his lips before he could stop it as he was dragged backwards, head colliding painfully with the floorboards and splinters burrowing into his fingertips as he tried to find something to hold onto.

Fingers twisted themselves into his hair, one of his wrists was pinned to the ground beside his head and, if he were quick enough, he could have thrust his knee up into his assailant’s groin but Muscles’ weight was on top of him before he could get his mind to engage.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP! STOP, PLEASE, STOP!”

“Chan …” Jeonghan choked brokenly as teeth clamped down on the flesh of his neck. “Chan, please, close your eyes … Please, baby, don’t watch …”

He was forced to cry out as his skin broke and blood trickled down from the fresh wound in his throat, pooling in the little well between his burned collarbones.

One of his hands was free, frantically pushing up against the chest pressing his body into the floor with absolutely no result yielding from his actions.

There was no use fighting. It was just going to make his injuries worse and there was absolutely no way – in any universe – that he would win. What was going to happen would happen and he was completely powerless to stop it.

“PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE!”

Why had Chan betrayed him? Why hadn’t Chan listened to him? He’d wanted one thing. Just one. That’s all he’d asked for. Just one tiny favour that was so easily obeyed and yet Chan hadn’t been able to grant him that.

“Please close your eyes …”

But his words went unheard by everyone, even him, as a hand fisted in his shirt and he was flipped unceremoniously violently onto his stomach.

The floor was digging into his ribs and his hips and his cheekbones and there was blood in his mouth and the wounds that had already existed were causing him pain and the wounds that had just been inflicted were causing him agony and then he was the one who closed his eyes.

It couldn’t last forever.

It would have to end at some point.

He just had to wait until then.

It would have to end at some point.

It couldn’t last forever.

Please, God, don’t let it last forever.

Seungcheol. Think of Seungcheol. And Joshua. His best friends. The people he trusted above all else in this universe.

Junhui and Wonwoo. The people he’d tried so hard to bring out into the light so they could show the world how beautiful their souls were.

Seungkwan, Seokmin and Soonyoung. The people who never failed to make him smile, no matter how bleak things looked.

Mingyu and Hansol. The people who looked like they could break him in half with just a flip of the wrist and yet gave him the best hugs.

Jihoon and Minghao. The people everybody thought were cold and yet the same people who had a faith in him so strong that they would display their most vulnerable side in front of him.

And Chan. Chan who had been so strong and so brave throughout this whole ordeal. Chan who he loved more than words could express. Chan who he was sacrificing everything for.

He thought of the most important people in his life, picturing their faces on the back of his eyelids, trying to visualise their smiles, trying to remember how they sounded when they laughed. He thought of the most important people in his life.

But it didn’t distract him from the disgusting reality embedding its talons in his body

Because nothing – _nothing –_ could distract him from that.


	42. Breathing But Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups of SEVENTEEN)

           Seungcheol wasn’t sure whether he was in denial or had just gone numb but he felt nothing. No pain, no discomfort, not even a hint of anxiety. He just didn’t exist anymore.

His bags were still sitting on the floor at his feet, the unfamiliar mattress in the spare bedroom pushing up against the backs of his thighs. He’d escaped from the living room under the pretence of wanting to unpack his things from the hospital but he’d never gotten around to it.

Now he was just here. Just … staring.

His shoulder was stiff, having been strapped to his chest for almost three weeks, but the medication he was on had effectively set up a barrier between the inevitable agony and his sensory nerves.

Part of him wished he wasn’t taking them. Part of him wished he could feel the pain Jeonghan and Chan were undoubtedly experiencing, probably at this very moment. But the rest of him was selfish. Cowardly and selfish.

At some point, there had been a knock on the door and Seungkwan had brought him a plate of sandwiches but when he’d received no response from his borderline-catatonic leader, he’d left the food on the bed beside him and slipped silently out of the room.

He didn’t want to eat because he knew Jeonghan and Chan couldn’t. He didn’t want to breathe because he knew Jeonghan and Chan were struggling to. He didn’t want to sleep because he knew Jeonghan and Chan wouldn’t be able to have that same luxury.

He didn’t want to exist in a world where he had failed the people most important to him.

His phone vibrated against his leg and he shuffled awkwardly atop the bed covers, using his one good hand to wriggle the device from his pocket so he could locate and eradicate the source. He wasn’t exactly up for a friendly chitchat at this moment.

But then he saw Jeonghan’s name on the contact ID.

Momentarily, he felt like he was suffocating. His lungs collapsed, his throat closed up, his heart combusted in his chest and for a whole thirty seconds he could do no more than hyperventilate as he stared at the video on his screen, just waiting for him to hit the PLAY button.

He should call Detective Park. Detective Park would know what to do. But at the same time, he desperately needed to know what Donghyuck’s escape had meant for the other hostages. Whether they were hurt or in pain or even still breathing, he had to find out.

So he did the very thing he knew he was going to regret and he pushed his finger against that little white circle with the triangle centred in the middle.  

_“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP! STOP, PLEASE, STOP!”_

There were tears in his eyes before the video even hit the five second mark and as soon as the image’s resolution cleared to reveal Chan’s figure writhing against the wall, he knew he wasn’t ever going to forget these next few moments.

His maknae was sobbing, his face a mess of tears and spit and snot with his cheeks flushed and his eyes swollen and a stark black bruise colouring the left side of his jaw bone. There was a rope around his throat, pulled taught over his windpipe and stretching up to whatever the other end of it was tied to.

And he was screaming.

The words were unintelligible, nothing more than smudged words of desperation and despair, and with his hands trapped behind his back, the only thing he was able to do was kick against the floor with feet that were scratched and bleeding.

_“PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE!”_

Seungcheol would rather die than finish this video where he watched his little boy begging and pleading with whoever it was outside the camera shot to stop whatever they were doing. But he owed it to Chan to endure just a fraction of that kid’s pain.

It looked like his ankle might be broken from the way it was ballooning purple but Chan didn’t seem to even notice as he continued to buck and struggle against his restraints in his frantic attempts to get at whatever was going on behind the lens.

Seungcheol didn’t want to know what it was.

Seungcheol didn’t want to know why he couldn’t see Jeonghan.

Seungcheol didn’t want to know what he had allowed to happen.

Precisely two minutes and thirty-five seconds into the worst moments of Seungcheol’s life, the camera panned away from the kid who looked as though he had screamed himself into another dimension and focused on the very thing that had sent Chan spiralling into such a state.

And Seungcheol saw Jeonghan for the first time since he’d been taken.

Words could never even begin to describe the sight of his best friend – the person he’d sworn to protect with everything he had on the day they’d appointed him leader – lying on the floor, drenched in blood and splattered with bruises and with absolutely no life in the eyes that had once been so beautiful.

He was breathing.

But he was gone.

And, after what felt like the longest and most torturous forever, the video came to an end, leaving Seungcheol sitting on the edge of his bed with tears streaming down his cheeks and a bottomless pit of grief and guilt in his stomach.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think and that was probably why it took him so long to realise what the footage had been missing.

A ransom demand.

They hadn’t set a price. They hadn’t even mentioned the price that had been previously set. There was no indication of what they were supposed to do now, nothing that even suggested they were planning to do anything at all.

Had they given up? Had they decided to just cut their losses and send one last message to ensure their failed investors would torture themselves for the rest of eternity before they killed their captives and ran?

Had they missed their chance to get them back?

Seungcheol couldn’t be in this room anymore. He couldn’t be under the same roof as the rest of his members, knowing they were incomplete and still missing two vital chunks in their community. He couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

Chan was their maknae. Their baby. They’d practically raised him and he meant more to them than life itself. And Jeonghan … Jeonghan was everything this team needed. They wouldn’t have survived without him. They wouldn’t be the people they were today without him.

And now they were gone.

Maybe for good.

Maybe forever.

The world seemed to be mourning along with him because, as soon as he stumbled out the front door, he was pummelled with raindrops the same size as bullets and he was soaked through to the skin in mere seconds.

He wasn’t supposed to get his bandages wet for fear that his stitches would come undone and leave his wound vulnerable to infection but he couldn’t care less. The rain felt good. It was cold and merciless and almost painful as it splattered against his shoulders and the back of his neck.

The streets were empty, every pedestrian having run for their homes as the heavens opened, and Seungcheol felt as if he were participating in his very own movie as he staggered down the centre of the road, completely isolated.

His sneakers sloshed through the puddles, his socks clinging to his feet and leaving his toes freezing cold and immobilised. He ripped off his sling and tossed it aside, leaving it abandoned in the gutter as his arm was finally free to hang limply at his side.

Jeonghan.

Chan.

A car was approaching, headlights glaring at him through the torrential downpour and, for a second, he wondered if he should just let it hit him. But then a horn blared an indignant warning and he stepped aside to let the monster of metal pass him by, sending a wave of water over his shivering body as it did.

And, without warning, he screamed.

He had no idea where it came from or what he was trying to achieve by opening his mouth and letting out the rawest shriek he could muster, lacing each decibel with as much anger and pain and frustration and guilt and sadness as he could.

The lamppost beside him was the first thing to receive the brunt of his punch. His knuckles made a sickening clang against the metal and agony ricocheted up his uninjured arm as the skin over his bones was split in two.

“Fuck you!” he roared into the rain, continuing to pummel the post with both hands, oblivious to the blood seeping through his shirt. “Fuck you, you fucking bastard! What the fuck did we do to you?!”

There was no one in particular he was addressing. He just needed to scream.

He just needed someone to blame other than himself because the only punishment he could inflict on his own body was suicide and he’d learned from watching the Exo members fall apart that such an action wasn’t a possibility.

“We just wanted to be a goddamn fucking boyband!” he continued to fume as he abandoned his makeshift punching bag and grabbed an abandoned Soju bottle from the ground. “That’s all we ever did! We just wanted to fucking make something of ourselves! We never asked for this! We didn’t deserve this!”

The glass shattered upon impact with the pavement, scattering alcoholic crystals throughout the sodden streets.

“What do you want?! What do you want from me, you fucking bastard?! You want me to die?! Is that what you want?! If I kill myself, will you give them back?! They never did anything wrong! They deserve better than this! If you wanted a life then why didn’t you just take mine?! Why them?! What did they ever do to you?!”

The rivulets of blood running down his arm were mixing with the rainwater and forming some kind of red-tinted concoction dripping from his fingertips, but he was too cold to feel the pain that came with ripped stitches and a re-opened wound.

He wouldn’t even have known he needed help if his knees hadn’t suddenly given out from beneath him, sending him thudding onto the curb as his body seemed to decide that enough was enough.

His chest was tight. His shoulder was on fire. His knuckles were throbbing. He seemed to be covered in his own blood but the only thing he felt was loss.

He had failed not only as a leader but also as a friend and a hyung. It seemed fitting that he would meet his end on the side of some street in the rain, alone and cold and wracked with the knowledge that he’d allowed Jeonghan and Chan to be taken from him.

“He’s here! Hyung, he’s here! I got him!”

Hands grabbed hold of his face, lifting his head, drawing the weak groan from deep within his throat as the sleep he thought would last forever was interrupted.

“You asshole!”

A second voice assaulted his eardrums, a second pair of hands hooked themselves around his chest and tried to heave him off the floor.

“He’s freezing. Jesus Christ, Cheol, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Seungcheol pried his eyelids apart just as he was dragged forwards and manhandled into a car where hot air was instantly blasted in his face and his frozen body was bundled up in a blanket.

He could see Junhui’s worried expression in front of him and Joshua’s livid one from the front of the car and he didn’t know whether he felt relief at the rescue or resentment that they hadn’t left him to die in the rain.

“What the fuck were you doing?” Joshua spat at him over his shoulder as he kicked the engine into gear. “Do you know what we thought when we couldn’t find you? We thought you’d gone to find some bridge to throw yourself off of! Why would you scare us like that?”

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol whispered, allowing his body to lean to the side until his head came to rest on Jun’s shoulder.

“What?” came the soft voice of his new human pillow. “What did you say, hyung?”

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol repeated as his eyes fluttered closed.

“What about him? Cheol? Cheol, do you know something? Cheol! Cheol, answer me! What happened to Jeonghan?”

Seungcheol had enough energy in him for one more sentence and it was the worst three words he’d ever uttered in his life.

“They raped him.”  

 

**Please copy and paste this link into your search bar and sign a petition that will hopefully cause some kind of legal action to be taken against Han Seohee, the person responsible for the defamation of multiple idols including iKON's B.I, Monsta X's Wonho and Shownu, GOT7's Jackson and NCT's Taeyong. Thank you.**

****http://chng.it/JF882FrmrD** **


	43. Negatively Positive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Na Jaemin (NCT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Minghao!

           There were police in the road outside. Police at either end of the street. Police in the house next door. Police in the spare bedroom down the hall. Police everywhere because they were finally back home.

The psychiatrist had said that Donghyuck needed to return to something familiar. To his own bed and his own living room and his own surroundings. But the kidnappers probably still knew where they lived and they couldn’t rule out a possible attempt on Donghyuck’s life.

So they were being guarded every minute of every hour of every day, but it was more than worth it so long as they got to have their friend back.

Taeyong had been cleaning the dorm since his discharge from the hospital, preparing for his baby’s arrival, and Jaemin could see just how stressed he was. He was pale, his skin was sallow, his face was sunken and he had stark purple bags hanging beneath his eyes.

If it were up to Jaemin, the doctors shouldn’t have let him go. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his hyung had let himself go against medical advice but he couldn’t exactly blame him.

Donghyuck had been gone for three weeks. Had been psychologically tortured, had been fucking shot and then had seen his hyung hanging at the end of a rope. If they could give him even the slightest smidgen of comfort then Jaemin would scrub the floor until his fingers bled.

There was the familiar crackling of a police radio as the first warning before the front door opened and their family liaison officer stepped over the threshold.

He caught Jaemin’s eye, just because he happened to be standing in the hallway at the time, and when Taeyong emerged from the kitchen, he seemed to decide that the area was safe enough to allow his charge to enter.

Donghyuck was staring at the floor, overgrown fringe hanging in front of his eyes and obscuring his face from view, but Jaemin could still see the protective hunch in his shoulders, the way he absently cradled his injured arm and the shuffling drag to his footsteps.

Taeil was at his side, one hand on his waist to comfort and guide him, and the other secured around the bag of clothes they’d sent to the hospital so that he wouldn’t have to wear those disgusting papery pyjamas.

Jaemin didn’t know what to do. He wanted to throw his arms around the boy in front of him and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the end of time but he didn’t want to overstep his boundaries.

Luckily for him, Taeyong seemed to know. Because Taeyong always knew.

“Come on, Hyuck,” he coaxed, slowly walking forwards and curling his arm around the kid’s shoulders. “I’ve got some seaweed soup for you in the kitchen.”

Donghyuck didn’t respond. Didn’t look up. Didn’t do anything other than follow his leader blindly, still looking withdrawn and terrified and horribly small for somebody who had once been so bright.

The two of them disappeared into the kitchen and only then did Jaemin hear the others creeping cautiously down the stairs. He knew they’d been hiding at the top, listening and waiting for a time when their presence wouldn’t be overwhelming or alarming.

Jisung was first, eyes blown wide and shimmering with unshed tears as he stared at the door through which his hyung had just stepped, and Jeno had a restraining hand on the back of his neck, probably the only thing preventing him from bursting into that room and throwing himself onto the one person who needed to be left alone.

“Is he okay?” he whispered as soon as he reached Jaemin’s side, gaze snapping between him, Taeil and the police officer still loitering in the doorway. “How … How did he look? Was his arm … Did his arm look like it was hurting him?”

“You can go in there,” Jaemin told him, nodding towards the kitchen with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “So long as you don’t shout or touch him without permission or suddenly start talking about everything he’s been through then he’ll probably want to see you.”

Chenle pushed past before the last word had even left his mouth, clearly too desperate to see his big brother to bother waiting another second. The sound of his socks slipping against the polished wooden panels echoed in his wake before he took a deep breath and vanished from sight.

“Go on,” Jeno encouraged, giving Jisung a gentle push. “Just be gentle.”

And Jisung looked like he wanted to. Like he really, really wanted to. But at the very last second, he retreated and shook his head, avoiding any eye contact and withdrawing back towards the stairs.

“I can’t,” he murmured shamefully.

“Why not?”

“I just … I can’t.”

“Jisung …”

But Jisung was already trotting up the stairs with his head hanging between his shoulders and his metaphorical tail between his legs.

Jaemin, Jeno and Taeil all exchanged a look of confusion, silently asking a question none of them could answer, but before they could initiate a brainstorming session, the police officer spoke up for the first time since his entrance.

“I’m just going to be in this room here,” he said, indicating the door to his right which had been assigned to him and his partner once they’d learned they would be staying for the idols’ protection. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. Alright?”

“Thank you,” Taeil dismissed with an exhausted-looking bow which the officer reciprocated before retiring to his room.

The soft voices of Chenle, Taeyong and Renjun – who’d been cooking the soup before Donghyuck’s arrival – trickled down the hallway from the kitchen and it sparked some desperation inside Jaemin to set his sights on his best friend once more.

Leaving Jeno and Taeil to deal with the bags in the hallway, he slipped as silently as he could onto the porcelain tiles and surveyed the scene in front of him.

They were all sitting at the table together, bowls of steaming stew set out in front of each of them. Renjun and Chenle were eating, not because they wanted to but because they were at a loss of what else to do seeing as Donghyuck hadn’t appeared to have touched his food.

He was perched on the very edge of his seat, fingers twisting in his lap and chin pressed into his chest. He was the epitome of trauma and it shattered Jaemin’s heart into a million different pieces.

How were they supposed to find that sunshine when it seemed to be gone forever?

Taeyong glanced up and subtly beckoned Jaemin to take the seat to his left. The idea was probably to make Donghyuck feel like nothing had changed, that they could still sit down and have a meal together despite everything that had happened, but that wasn’t the case.

That would never be the case ever again and even though Taeyong was trying so hard, everybody knew that pretending Donghyuck’s ordeal had been nothing more than a horribly vivid nightmare was not what was going to solve this.

They remained there together, listening to the sounds of Jeno, Jisung and Taeil moving about on the floor above and making the most casual small talk they could as their bowls gradually grew emptier, but Donghyuck didn’t even pick up his chopsticks.

From what Jaemin had heard, he hadn’t been starved like Yuta had. He’d been allowed – forced – to eat and drink but as soon as he’d been found and rescued, all of that had stopped. As though he were punishing himself for all the pain he hadn’t suffered.

“I found a film we could watch,” Renjun piped up hopefully as their awkward little meal reached an hour in length. “And we set up the pillows in the living room so we can all sleep down there together. Does that sound okay, Hyuck?”

No answer. They didn’t know what they should have expected.

“Okay, Hyuck,” Taeyong sighed, giving in and reaching across the table to take Donghyuck’s untouched bowl. “Why don’t you go into the living room with Renjun and Chenle and start watching the film? I’ll be there in a minute.”

It was painful – physically painful – to watch Donghyuck stand up and shuffle towards the living room. He flinched ever so slightly when Renjun’s hand appeared on his arm but he didn’t shake it off. He clearly wanted it there but didn’t know how to say so.

“Hyung?” Jaemin murmured as soon as they were out of earshot, helping his leader collect the plates and transfer them to the sink. “Hyung, what do we do? What’s … How …”

“We be patient,” Taeyong interrupted as Jaemin struggled to find the right words. “That’s all we can do for him right now. Be patient and understanding and kind. If he wants to talk then we listen but if he wants to stay silent then we let him. A therapist who specialises in cases like these is coming over tomorrow so he can open up to them if he wants to but we have to accept the fact that it might take him a while before he starts speaking again.”

Jaemin nodded absently, resigning himself to silence as he and Taeyong stood side by side at the basin and scrubbed the crockery until it squeaked.

The opening soundtrack of a Disney film filtered through from the living room but it had barely reached the end before there was the sharp chiming of the doorbell, cutting through the atmosphere so abruptly that Jaemin dropped the plate he was washing.

He sent Taeyong a questioning glance but received the same expression in return. They’d specifically asked all the others not to come over to Dream’s dorm so they wouldn’t bombard Donghyuck with so many people all at once.

Nobody had any reason to be here.

By the time they made it to the hallway, Taeil was already descending the stairs and one of the police officers had opened the door to reveal one of the last people they’d expected to see standing on their welcome mat.

“Chanyeol-hyung?”

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol grit out, swaying slightly on his feet and shrinking into his coat. “I know I shouldn’t be here but … Taeyong … I really need to talk to you …”

“It’s okay,” Taeyong said to the officer. “He’s a friend. He can come in.”

The policeman stepped back and Taeyong gushed forwards, taking Chanyeol by the elbow and steering him towards the kitchen. Jaemin and Taeil followed close behind, their position giving them the clearest view of just how badly Chanyeol was suffering.

His feet were dragging on the floor, his shoulders were hitched up to his ears, the arm that Taeyong wasn’t holding was clamped so tightly around his stomach that his fingernails had turned white. And the way he was breathing – short, sharp gasps – didn’t sound healthy in the slightest.

“What are you doing here?” Taeyong chastised, lowering his hyung into a chair and gesturing for Jaemin to bring them a glass of water. “Does Junmyeon-hyung … I mean, does Yixing-hyung know? You should still be in the hospital.”

Jaemin could have pointed out that, technically, so should Taeyong. But he stayed strategically silent, worriedly awaiting Chanyeol’s explanation as to why he had turned up on their doorstep unannounced and looking like death warmed up.

“I signed myself out AMA,” Chanyeol grunted, practically choking on the water he was handed. “I needed to see you.”

“Hyung …” Taeil started. “We have Donghyuck here. We can’t really …”

“I know,” Chanyeol cut him off at once. “That’s why I had to see you.”

For the longest time, nobody spoke. They all just stood there like dumbstruck doorknobs, watching Chanyeol chugging water even though it made him grimace in pain every time he swallowed a mouthful, until Taeyong finally broke the silence.

“What do you need from us?”

Chanyeol looked conflicted, like the next words he was about to say would destroy the relationship he had with the three people in front of him.

“Junmyeon-hyung,” he began cautiously. “You know that he’s dying, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Taeil nodded. “Liver failure, right?”

“Right. He needs a transplant or he’s not going to make it and because he tried to take his own life, the donor people aren’t going to move him to the top of the list. Something about wasting an organ on somebody who’s just going to kill themselves later on.”

Jaemin winced at the brutality but he didn’t speak up. He hated hearing about Junmyeon’s suffering but he was just as intrigued as to where this was going as the rest of them.

“None of us are a match,” Chanyeol continued. “We don’t have the same blood or tissue type so … so I know this is wrong. Please believe me, I know it’s wrong but there’s literally no one else we can turn to.”

He looked at Taeyong as he said it, pleading eyes boring into his junior’s face like he was his last hope on earth.

“Donghyuck’s AB negative, right?”

Jaemin felt sick. He felt anger. Disgust. Disbelief. The words were already on the tip of his tongue as he readied himself to spit every protest and insult in the face of this person who dared show up and demand they cut open their traumatised friend, but somebody else beat him to it.

“Taeil-hyung,” Taeyong said, his voice unnervingly flat as he straightened up and turned away from Chanyeol. “Call Yixing-hyung. Tell him Chanyeol’s here and he needs to go back to the hospital.”

“Taeyong,” Chanyeol cried desperately, his voice cracking on the second syllable. “I know I’m asking too much but please, just listen for a …”

“No,” Taeyong hissed as he whipped around, eyes narrowed and breathing forcibly controlled. “The only reason I’m not smacking you in the face right now is that you’re my senior and I respect you too much for that. I don’t want you in this house, I don’t want you near these kids and I don’t want to hear you say Hyuck’s name.”

Jaemin had never heard Taeyong talk like that. To anybody. It was terrifying.

“I’m sorry,” his leader continued to spit, clearly trying to control his volume so as not to alert Donghyuck, Renjun and Chenle in the next room. “About Junmyeon-hyung. I really am. If I had the same blood type then I’d give him my liver right now. But how dare you … How fucking dare you come here and ask us this?”

“Taeyong …” Chanyeol repeated, this time at a whisper, his eyes overflowing. “I can’t lose him … Please …”

“I’m AB,” Jaemin interjected, unable to watch this exchange any longer. “I’m blood type AB. I can … I can donate …”

They were gawping at him. Taeyong and Chanyeol. Gawping like he’d just grown a third head.

“You’re AB?” Chanyeol rasped. “AB negative?”

Only then did Jaemin’s heart plummet.

“No,” he whispered, dropping his gaze. “AB positive.”

He could literally feel the disappointment ebbing off Chanyeol’s body and even though he knew that he couldn’t control his own blood type, he still felt guilty for not being able to help save his senior from a slow and painful death.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Taeyong muttered at long last. “I’m sorry that you came all this way. I’m sorry that you’re in pain. I’m sorry that you’re scared. But I have a duty as a leader and as a hyung. I have to put my kids first and Donghyuck is nowhere near mentally or physically stable enough to undergo a procedure like that.”

And Chanyeol sounded so defeated as he replied, “Okay.” 


	44. Wonderful Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Oh Sehun (EXO)

         Hope was a wonderful thing. It kept you alive when your pulse was slowing down and your heart was shrivelling up and your eyes were starting to close. It kept you faithful, trusting that somebody was about to burst through the door and save you.

Hope was a wonderful thing.

Shame that Sehun didn’t have any of it left.

For the first week or so after his abduction, he had been telling himself that the police were about to storm the building at any moment, kicking down the door at the top of the stairs and plunging into that dingy basement to pull them out. 

But they hadn’t.

And then he’d told himself that his captors would let him go as soon as Jisung handed over the ransom money. That he’d just be able to walk free and never have to look back at the nightmares he’d suffered in that hell hole .

But he hadn’t.

And, finally, he’d told himself that Donghyuck had escaped and would find somebody that could track them down and rescue them before anything worse could be done to Minseok or any of the others. Even after they’d been moved to the new location, he still had faith.

But they were still here. And any remaining dregs of hope had been drained from his exhausted body.

There was no concept of time in this dusty little room. He hadn’t a clue how many hours or days or even weeks had passed since that horrifically unsuccessful escape attempt.

Since Minseok had been beaten into unconsciousness with a baseball bat. Since Yoongi had been pinned down and mutilated. Since Jeonghan had been … He couldn’t even think about that.

Sehun just sat there, his legs and back alternating between paralysing numbness and terrible prickling pain. He kept trying to move his fingers behind him, ensuring that he wasn’t losing circulation, but there was nothing he could do about the rope around his neck.

It remained there, preventing him from crawling forwards to where Minseok was still sprawled on the floor several feet ahead of him. Reminding him that he was nothing more than a dog, leashed and tamed.

The lock clicked and the door swung open but it brought him no fear anymore. Minseok hadn’t woken up since the beating, had barely managed to stay breathing, and so there was nothing more they could do to him that wouldn’t result in his death.

Sehun wasn’t afraid anymore. They’d already taken everything from him. His hyung, his sanity, his hope. There wasn’t anything else to break.

Beanie came striding in, a familiar plastic bag swinging from his right hand. He gave Minseok the usual check, stooping over him to ensure he was still alive, before doing the same with Yoongi.

He didn’t go near Jeonghan. Muscles had already established his ownership of that particular captive.

“Open up,” the gruff voice commanded as Beanie crouched beside Sehun and plucked the gag from his mouth, holding up a water bottle with a straw protruding from the top. “And swallow. No funny business.”

Sehun wasn’t exactly sure what funny business he could actually do in his situation but he leaned forwards anyway, taking the straw between his lips and sucking the euphorically soothing water down his throat.

Beanie waited, somewhat patiently, for him to finish the entire bottle, occasionally ordering him to hurry up but never removing the source of sustenance, before he shovelled a piece of bread into Sehun’s mouth. Clearly, they still wanted them hydrated and fed.

Leaving his first victim to chew his overly large mouthful, Beanie moved onto Jungkook who had lost every last bit of fight he’d had in his body. Who had become nothing more than a broken empty shell, staring at Yoongi’s motionless figure, caked in its own dried blood, and staying silent.

And then there was Chan. Chan just cried. All the time. Sehun wondered how he still had any fluid left in him and there was a cruel side to his mind that wanted to tell the kid to be quiet so he could finally get some peace, but he couldn’t.

Chan had seen the unthinkable. He had watched the unimaginable. He had every right to cry until judgement day if that was how he could cope with what he’d witnessed.

Beanie left without another word grunted from behind his mask, abandoning the hostages to stew in their own traumatic misery for the umpteenth time and locking the door behind him.

It took several minutes before Sehun realised he hadn’t replaced their gags. It made sense, he supposed, seeing as none of them were stupid enough to try screaming for help that wasn’t going to come. They’d learnt their lessons. And then some.

Sehun wanted to say something. Something comforting and motivational. But there were no words that could possibly offer a lifeline out of this deep dark chasm. There was no going back, no making it better, no hope for escape.

There was nothing.

So he just leaned back against the wall, wondering if he should pull on the rope around his neck until it snapped his spine, and watched Minseok fighting for breath from where he was curled up in a broken heap of mangled limbs.

“Hyung …”

Jungkook’s voice was hoarse and croaky, barely even audible, but seeing as the only other sounds in the room were Minseok and Yoongi’s harsh wheezing, Sehun heard it anyway.

He turned his head slowly, wincing at the pain that sparked in his stiffened neck, and took in the pitiful sight of Jungkook on his right.

His hair had grown so long that it tickled his nose, greasy and tangled and nothing like the fluffy mop Sehun had seen him sporting on so many award show evenings, and unlike him and Chan, Jungkook’s feet were still tied at the ankles, making it even harder for him to reposition himself comfortably.

“Yeah?”

“What are they going to do to us?”

From across the room, Chan let out a strangled sob and Sehun’s gaze was automatically drawn towards him and therefore, by association, to Jeonghan. And then he had to resist the urge to vomit at the memory of what he’d watched that boy go through.

Clearing his throat and fiercely blinking away tears, he returned his attention to Jungkook and tried to school his tone into one of calmness even though his words held no comfort whatsoever.

“I don’t know, Jungkook.”

“They didn’t ask for ransom,” Jungkook continued, voice wavering with poorly concealed emotion. “In the video they took, they didn’t ask for ransom.”

Chan’s whimpering increased in volume at the mention of his big brother’s recorded torture.

“Why would they do that? Why would they send a video if they weren’t going to ask for more money?”

Sehun knew the answer already, and he was pretty sure that Jungkook was smart enough to figure that out for himself, too. Tattoo had broadcasted Jeonghan’s assault for one simple reason: to torment those he’d left behind.

To say, clear as day to the people waiting back home, that they’d lost their chance. That they’d screwed up one too many times and therefore they had caused the suffering that was being inflicted upon their loved ones.

They were done faffing around with ransom. It was too complicated. There was too much room for error and foul play from the other side. Any chance they’d had at a smooth hostage exchange had circled the drain as soon as Donghyuck had slipped from between his captor’s fingers.

“I don’t think they want any more money from the companies,” Sehun whispered back, eyes reluctantly wandering over Yoongi’s limp body lying on its stomach with the bloodied message carved into his back on full display. “I … I think they’re using their plan B.”

“What’s … What’s plan B?”

Sehun probably shouldn’t tell him. He didn’t even know for sure if he was right but, from collecting various isolated phrases and hints Tattoo and his men had unintentionally sent them, he had a pretty good idea.

“Hyung,” Jungkook pushed, the first tear sliding down his cheek as he broke Sehun out of his trance. “Hyung, what’s their plan B?”

“I … I think … I think they’re going to sell us off.”

He saw the way Jungkook’s eyes widened in horrified realisation. Saw the way the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his mind and he, too, came to the same conclusion. The very conclusion Sehun had desperately prayed hadn’t been correct.

But the evidence was there. It had been from the very start. Tattoo had always had the idea in the back of his mind, waiting for the moment when its services would be required. This had been their security plan all along.

“Think about it,” Sehun continued, unable to draw his eyes from Jeonghan as he spoke, remembering what had been done to him and hoping against hope that the same thing wasn’t going to happen to the rest of them, too.

Muscles had tortured him for well over an hour. It didn’t matter how desperately he fought, how hard he cried, how loud Chan screamed and begged and pleaded for the monster to just take him instead, he hadn’t stopped.

And when he’d finally left his victim bleeding and broken on the floor and had left the room like it was just another Tuesday at the office, Jeonghan had pulled his torn and tattered clothes back on, crawled into the furthest corner and hadn’t moved since.

He was still there, curled up on his side with his back pressed against the wall and his arms over his head. Occasionally, he would start shaking. Occasionally, they could hear him crying. But he didn’t speak, he didn’t move and now he wasn’t even answering Chan’s broken calls.

That was what assault did to a person.

Sehun didn’t want to become like that.

But it wasn’t like he had a choice.

“They never touched us,” he explained, eyes glazing over to protect him from the sight of Jeonghan’s bloodied figure in the corner. “From the very beginning, they said we wouldn’t be hurt. I think they were saving us. Like … Preserving us so that, if they didn’t get the ransom, they could just auction us off to the highest bidder.”

And the more he talked, the more it made sense and the harder it became to argue with.

“They still get their money but just in a different way. I’m not sure … maybe they planned to do this all along. Whether they got the ransom or not. Minseok-hyung … Yoongi … Jeonghan … They were never meant to survive. They were just leverage to keep us in line so that they wouldn’t have to hurt us. They … They were dead weeks ago.”

There was silence. Or almost silence as Minseok and Yoongi continued to fight for breath through lungs that had dried up and chests that had collapsed in on themselves from either the blunt force trauma of a baseball bat or blood loss from the amateur tattooing.

But Jeonghan had stopped shaking. His body had actually seemed to relax, the rise and fall of his stomach slowing down and the grip he had on his hair loosening ever so slightly. Like … Like he was relieved.

Relieved to hear that it was only a matter of time before he died.

And Jungkook must have noticed it, too, because the next words that came out of his mouth were quiet and broken and laced with emotion, but still strong enough to show that this wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind.

“You were right,” he breathed. “Back in the basement all those weeks ago … You were right.”

Sehun’s brows knitted together in confusion. He’d said a lot of things in their previous prison cell and many of them had the potential to have been correct, but he wasn’t sure which one Jungkook was referring to.

But then the boy clarified, and there was no room left for doubt.

“We should have killed the hyungs when we had the chance.”


	45. Too Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Dong Sicheng (Winwin of NCT)

             Sicheng was on autopilot.

His baby brother was holed up in the Dream dormitory, still barely speaking, still barely reacting to anything that was going on around him as he slowly spiralled into the vortex of his own trauma.

And there was nothing Sicheng could do about it.

His hyung – the one person he’d thought he could always rely on to be right there – was clutching at the edges of existence by the tips of his fingers. He could slip away at any given moment, his heart just slowing to a stop as he lay in that big white bed.

And there was nothing Sicheng could do about it.

He’d thought that, when Donghyuck and Yuta had been found, everything would just be miraculously back to normal, but that hadn’t happened. There had been no dramatic reunion where tears of joy rained from each set of eyes. There had been no room for happiness.

There was just more misery. More helplessness. More praying to a God they no longer believed in to please – _please_ – end their suffering before they were all driven past the point of insanity by this endlessly repetitive cycle.

“Doyoung,” Sicheng murmured, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder and drawing him back from the brink of unconsciousness. “Doyoung, wake up.”

Doyoung raised his head, blinking blearily up at the new arrival as he sat up from where he’d been slumped over the bed with his head resting on his arms and his eyes closed in a sleep he must have been craving for a while.

“Go home,” Sicheng told him gently, fastening a grip around his upper arm and pulling him out of his chair. “I’ve got this. You need to rest properly.”

It was a testament to how exhausted Doyoung really was when he slouched out of the room without a single protest leaving his lips. Sicheng had no idea how long he’d sat there, his back straining in the uncomfortable position as he refused to leave the bedside.

But then again, Sicheng couldn’t say he hadn’t done exactly the same thing on too many occasions to count.

“Hi, hyung,” he greeted softly, lowering himself into the chair Doyoung had just vacated and reaching forwards to brush Yuta’s fringe out of his eyes. “I know I was only here yesterday but I missed you.”

No reply. There was never a reply. The only conversation he ever got to have in this room was with the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the gentle sucking of the intubation tube.

What he wouldn’t give to see the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a finger, even if it was just a muscle spasm. Because, for all he knew, Yuta’s soul had already vacated the body that was lying in front of him.

“You need to wash your hair,” Sicheng observed absently, curling the greasy locks around his finger. “I can do that for you if you want.”

He waited, but there was no reply. There was never a reply.

One of the ICU nurses had taught him how to bathe a comatose patient on his first visit and now he could proudly say that he was an expert. It hadn’t really occurred to him yet that knowing something like that shouldn’t exactly be something to be proud of.

He fetched the bowl of water and the washcloth, ensuring that both were warm enough before he set them on the bedside table. The flannel was heavy as he pulled it out of the bath and he gave it a quick squeeze to get rid of the excess liquid before cautiously bringing it to Yuta’s face.

Every time he did this – and he’d done it a few times – he couldn’t help but count every single injury his eyes settled upon as he slowly worked his way over his hyung’s battered body, smoothing the cloth over the damaged skin and then drying it just as carefully.

There were bruises everywhere. On his face, on his chest, his shoulders, his back. One eye was so blackened and bulbous that it had almost doubled in size. There was a clean white dressing taped to his cheek, concealing the bloodied gash that had needed five stitches to close.

The wound just below his hairline was uncovered, the tiny little steri-strips holding both sides together as the surrounding skin gradually turned from blue to brown to greenish and then to yellow, hiding the multitude of internal damage that lay beneath.

His lips were split, cracked and broken, stretched around the tube the doctors had fed down his throat to help him breathe even though his trachea had been ruptured, his windpipe had collapsed and one of his lungs was no longer operating as it should.

His throat was arguably the most distressing to look at. The ring of black and blue that circled all the way around his neck, vibrantly stark against the paper white skin, stood as a constant reminder of the belt he’d been hung from and then abandoned to suffocate on.

His weight had plummeted, every bone jutting out like great glaciers of calcium. His collarbones were pushing up against the underside of his skin, desperate to escape. Each of his ribs were perfectly defined, making it far too easy to see which ones had been shattered beneath the weight of a boot.

A pillow propped his ankle up above the mattress, pressure bandages enclosing his foot in a tight embrace to soothe the sprain that had ruptured all the soft tissue clinging to the broken bones. The doctors had said he might need surgery further down the line, if he even got there.

Sicheng was thankful he couldn’t see Yuta’s wrists. Both were plastered in gauze, resembling the aftermath of a suicide attempt, and doing the entire world a favour as they covered the raw and infected wounds that had been carved into his skin by the ropes he’d been bound with.

And then there was the hand. Everything always came back to the hand.

The surgeons had needed to operate despite the risk of anaesthesia on a patient so fragile before the bacteria could spread further and they needed to amputate his entire arm. It had been a success, they’d said, but it didn’t look that way.

His index and middle finger were gone, leaving nothing but stitched-up stumps in their place. The bones had been far too fragmented for any doctor to fix and so they’d removed them. The sutures were healing but they looked awful, scarlet and sticky and sick.

The entire hand was framed in some kind of metal cage, pins and nails drilled into the bones to keep them aligned so they could heal as much as something so fucked up could, and the skin beneath looked peaky and pale.

There were too many injuries.

He was hurt in too many ways.

Recovery seemed impossible. Even the doctors had said his prospects were bleak. If he woke up now then the chances of his brain suffering absolutely no damage was probably one in a million. The longer he remained unconscious, the higher the possibility of neurological deficits.

Sicheng hummed some made-up tune, dropping the washcloth back into the bowl and pulling the blankets back over Yuta’s hospital gowned-body. He wanted to tuck him in, make sure he was warm, position him on his side because that was the way he liked to sleep.

But he could do none of those things.

There was the creak of the door opening and Sicheng glanced up, preparing to see one of the nurses coming to do her hourly checks, and instead finding himself face to face with a very nervous-looking Yangyang.

“Hey,” he greeted hoarsely.

“Hey,” Yangyang parroted, shuffling from foot to foot in the doorway as though he weren’t quite sure he was allowed to be here. “Can … Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Sicheng turned back towards Yuta, listening to Yangyang cautiously padding into the room as he pulled the specialised basin from its place in the bedside cabinet drawer and placed it on a nearby chair.

“Kun told you to come and check on me, didn’t he?”

“No … I mean, yes, but I …” Yangyang stuttered, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as his widened eyes fixated on the patient. “I wanted to come.”

“Good,” Sicheng monotoned as he hooked a hand beneath Yuta’s head and lifted it just high enough for him to remove the pillow. “You can help me. Grab the basin and put it just here.”

Yangyang scrambled to obey, heaving the porcelain square onto the bed and positioning it underneath Yuta’s head so Sicheng could shift into place, placing his best friend’s neck against the padded dip in the white wall.

“What … What are you doing?” Yangyang asked, hovering uselessly to the side.

“Washing his hair. Hand me that cup.”

The kid passed him the small plastic drinking container and Sicheng filled it up with water from the bowl he’d left on the cabinet before shielding Yuta’s eyes with his hand and pouring it over his forehead.

The liquid drizzled through his hair, pattering into the basin below, and Sicheng repeated the action as Yangyang watched his big brother combing through the tangled and smoothing the dyed mop against the patient’s scalp.

“You’ve never really had a conversation together, have you?” he asked, glancing up at Yangyang as he refilled the seventh cup. “You and Yuta-hyung?”

“No,” the boy confirmed, shaking his head. “We’ve met and Yuta-sunbaenim said …”

“Yuta-hyung,” Sicheng interrupted at once. “He’d want you to call him Yuta-hyung.”

The look on Yangyang’s face was both adorable and heart-breaking. It was kind of similar to happiness, like he felt honoured to be granted permission for such a mundane thing, but it was also mixed with grief.

Because he might never get a chance to call Yuta “hyung”.

“Yuta-hyung said that I could ask him if I had any questions or I needed help with anything. But that was almost six months ago and we haven’t spoken since. I … I should have called him.”

Sicheng didn’t know how to respond to that so he returned his attention to his own sterile hair salon, massaging soap into Yuta’s scalp and then soaking it through with more water from the bowl.

For a brief second, in the back of his mind, Sicheng saw the moment that Yuta woke up. The wave would flow through his fringe, his eyes would crinkle ever so slightly and then he would open them and Sicheng would get to see him again.

But he knew the odds of that happening were lower than the deepest ocean.

“What’s he like?” Yangyang started up again, still timid and stuttering as he reached out with shaking hands and started to help with Yuta’s hair. “What’s Yuta-hyung like?”

Sicheng thought for a moment, staring at his slightly-pruning fingers and the reddish tint to the water as whatever blood hadn’t yet been washed out was permitted to escape, before he finally answered his maknae’s question.

“He’s crazy,” he said shortly, an ever so slight smile curling his lips. “He’s completely batshit crazy. But he’s also kind. Like, really, really kind. Affectionate. He always wants to be hugging somebody just in case they’re sad. And supportive, too. Even after he found out I was leaving to debut with WayV, the first thing he did was tell me how big of an opportunity it was going to be.”

He could remember it like it was yesterday.

The shock and sadness that had flashed across Yuta’s face as he heard his favourite person would no longer be sleeping under the same roof as him.

The way he had looked like he was about to cry.

And then the way his expression softened as his lips formed the words, “this is the opportunity you deserve”.

Sicheng might never get to see those lips form anything ever again. He might never get to see those eyes brimming with tears of devastation and yet happiness as well. He might never get to see a single expression flash across the face that now lay before him, bruised and beaten almost beyond recognition.

“He sounds good,” Yangyang muttered, almost to himself. “He sounds really good.”

“He w … He is,” Sicheng replied, wincing as he nearly said the word ‘was’. “He is good.”

Too good for this world.

Too good for any of this.

Just … Too good.


	46. Sir/Hyung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Donghyuck (Haechan of NCT)

           He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

He wasn’t wearing any shoes and therefore every step felt like a thousand needles were being drilled into the soles of his feet.

He wasn’t wearing any shoes and so there was dirt lathered into the cuts between his toes and bits of twig and grass and pinecone fragments clinging to his skin.

He wasn’t wearing any shoes and that made everything ten times more terrifying and a hundred times more painful.

The stitch in his side felt like there was a knife between his ribs, forcing him to trade reckless sprinting for tentative sneaking, wincing and almost crying out in both fear and discomfort whenever a stick snapped beneath his weight.

Any minute now, he might see a torch beam streaming through the trees, blinding him with its brightness and temporarily paralysing him so that one of those monsters could close the gap between them, sweep him up and drag him back to that basement.

He felt like he could barely breathe. His shoulders were heaving with the exertion of all that running and both his toes and his fingers were in danger of frostbite but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop for a single second or else all that sacrifice had been for nothing.

He’d left Yuta behind. He was Jungkook and Sehun’s only chance. He’d abandoned Chan about two miles back with a broken ankle and absolutely no hope of escaping the brutes who were probably scouring the forest right now, readying themselves to swoop down and grab the stupid captives who had dared make an attempt at escape.

He was the only one who could save them.

_CRACK!_

It couldn’t have been anything bigger than a bramble branch but the sound of the wood splintering beneath a studded boot cut through the darkness with all the volume of a bomb blast.

Donghyuck dropped to the ground at once, almost without thinking, and immediately felt the dirt and the grime seeping through the front of his T-Shirt as he lay there in the undergrowth with his eyes screwed shut and his lips forming silent prayers to God.

Maybe he hadn’t been seen. Maybe he’d been quick enough. Maybe it had just been a fox or a deer or some other creature that lived in these woods. Maybe he was okay to get up. Maybe he was safe for the time being.

“I see you.”

It was so close that he felt the breath whispering against his cheek and he didn’t waste a single second, his terror so overpowering that he couldn’t even comprehend what he was doing before he was up and running.

Running like the existence of the entire planet depended on it. Running like his feet weren’t bare and scratched and bleeding already. Running like there wasn’t a gunshot wound slashed across his arm and blood staining his shirt.

Running. Just running. Running and crying and praying.

And they were right behind him. He could hear the thundering of their footsteps, powerful legs picking up the pace until they were right on his tail and, any moment now, a hand would shoot out and grasp a fistful of his hair, plucking him right off the ground like a disobedient puppy.

They were going to catch him. They were going to take him back there. They were going to make him watch as they hurt Yuta. Maybe they were even going to force him to do the hurting. They weren’t above it. He’d known that already.

Keep running. Don’t stop. Scream if you have to. Scream to alert somebody. Anybody. You need help and you need it now or you’ll have to hurt Yuta again.

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP!”

There were fingers scrabbling at the back of his neck, nails scraping his skin until they finally managed to find purchase and then he was on the ground and there was a weight on his back, pushing him into the soil and he was beyond petrified.

“HELP ME, PLEASE! GET OFF ME! SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME!”

And then it wasn’t just him screaming. His own cries of terror weren’t the only sounds penetrating the freezing night air as he kicked and thrashed and writhed in the mud.

Yuta was screaming, too. He could hear it, crystal clear and louder than life. He could hear it like it was happening right now, right beside him, right next to him. Around him, in him, on him, everywhere.

_“Donghyuck!”_

Screaming, muffled by the tape that was coiled around his head.

_“Donghyuck, snap out of it!”_

Screaming as the bones in his fingers were shattered beneath the head of the hammer Donghyuck had brought down on his hand.

_“Wake up, Donghyuck! Wake up!”_

Screaming through the indescribable agony he was suffering at the hands of his baby brother.

 _“Donghyuck, it’s not real! I prom_ ise! I promise it’s not real!”

There were arms around him. His face was buried in somebody’s chest. A chin was resting atop his head. The hand he thought had been clamping down on the back of his neck was keeping him from escaping.

“It’s just a nightmare! You have to wake up, Donghyuck! It’s just a nightmare! I promise!”

His arm lashed out, trying to break free of his restraints, and his elbow slammed against something hard. Something smooth and hard. Like a wall. The last time he’d checked, forests didn’t have walls.

“Hyung’s here! Hyung’s got you! It’s just me! I promise, Hyuck, it’s just me!”

The floor beneath him wasn’t muddy. It was padded. And soft. And tufty. Like a carpet. Like the carpet they had in the dorms. And there were no sticks or twigs or leaves crunching underneath him.

“That’s it … That’s it … Come back to me, Hyuck … That’s it … Good boy.”

Fingers carding through his hair. A hand rubbing up and down his back. An embrace that was warm and comforting rather than restricting and suffocating. A mantra of whispered words that promised safety and protection instead of pain and suffering.

“You’re doing it, Donghyuck … You’re doing so well …”

He stopped fighting due to a combination of exhaustion and realisation.

Realisation that this person was only holding him so tightly to stop him from hurting himself. Realisation that this person was not trying to take him back to that basement where he would be forced to beat his hyung with a hammer until he passed out.

Realisation that this person was Taeil.

“H … H …” His throat was so raw from screaming that he couldn’t get the word out. “Hyung?”

“Right here.”

It was definitely Taeil. He could hear it now. And the body he was pressed up against was far smaller and far thinner and far softer than any of those people down in that basement.

“It was just a nightmare. Okay? Just a nightmare.”

Donghyuck opened his eyes as he brought his hands up to clutch at Taeil’s arm, tears still streaming down his face. He blinked several times to clear his vision and only then did he recognise his surroundings as the hallway of their dorm.

The last thing he could remember was lying down. In his room. In his bed. And now he was wondering if he’d actually been sprinting through the house, screaming for help until Taeil tackled him so he couldn’t faceplant into a wall.

“Are you back with me?” Taeil whispered, drawing back slightly so he could take Donghyuck’s face in his hands and wipe away the tears. “You know where you are?”

He nodded, sniffling pathetically and wiping his nose on his sleeve. It took a little extra effort to sit up from where he’d been slouched against Taeil but his hyung helped him regain vertical status, and then he noticed the audience that had gathered at the end of the hallway.

Jeno and Mark were already ushering Jisung, Chenle and Renjun back into their rooms, voices hushed and hair messed up after the abrupt awakening they’d undoubtedly suffered.

A moment later, Jaemin poked his head out of the bathroom, a phone to his ear, and Donghyuck knew he was most likely calling Taeyong or Johnny.

Hit with a sudden burst of burning embarrassment, he reached for his hood and pulled it up to try and conceal his snot-stained and tear-tracked cheeks from view. The very last thing he wanted to do was become a spectacle.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Taeil was asking him, hands cautiously roaming over his shoulders to check for injuries. “Is your arm okay?”

Donghyuck would be lying if he said it was. The bandages were digging in and the wound itself was pulsating painfully, but it was probably some ungodly hour of the morning and he’d caused his hyung enough trouble.

“No,” he muttered shamefully, pulling his sleeves down over his hands and hanging his head. “S … Sorry, hyung … For waking you …”

“Hey,” Taeil interrupted, cupping the kid’s chin and lifting his head so that they had no choice but to meet eyes. “Never apologise for something like that, okay? You are not a problem, you are not a burden, you are my dongsaeng and that means I am willing to do anything if it means you feel safe again.”

Donghyuck looked away. He didn’t have the heart to tell his big brother that he doubted he would ever feel safe again for the rest of his life. That he didn’t feel safe enough to sleep or to eat or to do anything he wasn’t given express permission for.

It seemed he now had some kind of deep-seated fear that, if he disobeyed an order or spoke when he hadn’t been told he could, he would have to watch Yuta being beaten or mutilated or hung from a supporting beam with a belt looped around his neck.

He was terrified to walk into a room he hadn’t been invited into, to ask for a glass of water if somebody was standing in front of the sink. He was terrified to breathe in any air that hadn’t been specifically assigned to him.

He was broken. And nothing Taeil did was ever going to change that.

“Thank you,” he whispered anyway, not wanting to sound rude or dismissive of his hyung’s kindness, and before he even knew what he was doing, he added, “Sir.”

It was a screw-up. A mistake. He hadn’t meant to say it but he’d gotten so used to addressing his captors as such, fearing punishment if he didn’t show some kind of respect, that it had just slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

His gaze shot up to Taeil’s face, eyes widening in horror at what he’d done and he instantly tried to cover up with a shaky and broken, “I-I … I meant ‘hyung’. Sorry. I’m sorry. I meant ‘hyung’.”

But the damage was done. Taeil was staring at him with such intense heartbreak written into every feature of his face that it looked like he was about to burst into tears right there on the spot.

He’d retracted his hands from Donghyuck’s shoulders like the kid’s body had suddenly burned him and now he was just kneeling there, eyes welling up, lips forming vague syllables as he tried to come up with something appropriate to say.

Guilty didn’t even begin to describe how Donghyuck felt at that moment.

“I … Can … Can I go to bed, please?” he stuttered, avoiding eye contact at all costs and furiously picking at the ends of his sleeves. “Hyung.”

“Sure,” Taeil whispered, and that single word was cracked and broken as he reached up to pet Donghyuck’s head.

And, as if the entire situation wasn’t bad enough, Donghyuck flinched.

“I’m sorry!” he erupted, mentally slapping himself for trying to escape somebody he knew would never hurt him. “I’m sorry, Sir! I mean … hyung. I’m s-sorry, hyung. I … I’m sorry. Good night. I’m sorry.”

He scrambled up off the floor and lunged for the closest door, practically tumbling over the threshold and slamming it behind him. He pressed his back up against the wooden surface, sweater paws clamped over his face to muffle his sobs, and sank onto the ground.

He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so badly.

Taeil had done nothing more than try to help him, try to comfort him and tell him he was safe, and Donghyuck had probably seemed like he was going out of his way to remind his hyung of the horrors he’d been through.

He’d made him feel bad. He’d flinched away from his touch. He’d called him ‘Sir’, for fuck’s sake. What the fuck was wrong with him? Had he been messed up so badly that he just automatically assumed everyone around him was a threat?

Is that what he’d become now?

It took about twenty minutes before he finally fell asleep, still curled up against the door with his face buried in his knees and his sweatpants drenched in his own tears.

And not once did he realise that he wasn’t in his own room.

And not once did Jisung manage to come up with something to say to him.

He sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, watching Donghyuck sniffle in his sleep before he finally worked up the courage to wrap him in a blanket and put an arm around his shoulders.

Neither of them moved for the rest of the night.


	47. Another Broken Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Do Kyungsoo (D.O of EXO)

             Kyungsoo felt like he was losing his mind.

He no longer knew what time, day, date, year it was. He no longer knew where one night ended and another morning began. He no longer knew what the purpose of any of his actions were and he felt like he was trapped in an infinitely looping cycle.

Half his time was spent at the dorm with Jongin, fetching the boy whatever he needed, seeing as he could no longer walk on his own, and helping him with the grotesque physical therapy exercises he’d been assigned.

And the other half was spent at the hospital, watching as Junmyeon’s oxygen levels slowly deteriorated, as his skin got increasingly yellower, as he found it more and more difficult to breathe until the doctors had needed to strap an oxygen mask to his face.

Somewhere else in the hospital, Baekhyun had refused to leave Chanyeol’s side, sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair day and night while his best friend recovered from his impromptu and definitely-not-authorised field trip to the NCT dorm.

Kyungsoo understood that he’d just wanted to help, that he’d been desperate to find something that would save his leader, but marching – or rather, staggering – up to Taeyong and demanding that Donghyuck just throw himself onto an operating table and give them part of his liver had been perhaps the worst decision ever made.

A horrible, guttural wheezing sound broke Kyungsoo from his thought process and his head snapped up, instantly on the alert, to see Junmyeon’s eyelids fluttering as his hand groped blindly for the plastic muzzle over his face.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothed, reaching forwards and gently removing the mask from his hyung’s face. “What do you need? Water?”

Junmyeon rasped out an agonisingly hoarse, “please”, and Kyungsoo blinked away his tears as he retrieved the cup from the bedside table, slipping his hand beneath the patient’s head and lifting it so he could bring the paper rim to his lips.

“Gently, gently,” he warned, coaxing the refreshing liquid down Junmyeon’s throat. “Take it slow. No need to rush.”

Individual droplets trickled down the side of Junmyeon’s cheek and Kyungsoo returned the cup to its original place before leaning forwards to mop up the excess water with his sleeve. Anybody could have seen the boy was too weak to do it himself.

“Hang on,” Kyungsoo whispered, replacing the oxygen mask over his leader’s face and carefully combing back his sweat-soaked fringe as his eyes drifted closed again. “Please, hyung. Just hang on a little longer.”

He’d done this. Him. Him and his stupid disgusting mouth had driven Kim Junmyeon – leader extraordinaire and strongest person he knew – into a suicide attempt that had left him with a faulty liver poisoning his body.

The doctors said he had a couple of weeks at the very most. His blood was in danger of becoming septic, he could barely string together a coherent sentence and the only thing keeping him from unimaginable indescribable agony were the drugs being pumped into his veins.

Minseok and Sehun were still out there, God knows where and in God knows what kind of fear, and Kyungsoo knew that, even if they were rescued, Junmyeon’s chances of ever being able to see them again were rapidly dwindling with each passing day.

They deserved to come home to a full family, a healthy family, a _living_ family, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen. Either they returned to find their leader dead or they never returned at all.

The thought of either possibility was paralysing.

Unable to sit in that chair and watch Junmyeon struggling for breath a moment longer, Kyungsoo got up and slipped out of the room, trying to be as quiet as possible so his leader didn’t wake up and realise he was being abandoned.

He leant against the hospital corridor wall, allowing the cool concrete to calm his burning skin. He’d picked up the mail that morning and included in that collection of junk and bills had been one particular envelope that caught his eye.

Minseok’s draft papers.

They were summoning him into the military when, right now, he was probably tied up in some godawful basement with cuts and bruises littering his bleeding body and absolutely no way to protect Sehun.

Or worse. Kyungsoo had seen the video of Jeonghan. It could be so much worse.

Footsteps were approaching from the other end of the corridor and he flinched, frantically trying to absorb the tears on his face before a nurse or a doctor could get the chance to see him crying, but the person who walked past was neither a medical professional nor a patient.

“Detective Park?”

“Ah,” the man acknowledged, clearly disgruntled at being interrupted even though he pivoted on the spot and gave Kyungsoo a half-hearted bow of greeting. “I’m sorry, Kyungsoo-ssi. I didn’t see you there.”

Kyungsoo dismissed the forced apology and volleyed the first question that leapt to the front of his mind, “Do you have any more leads?”

He felt out of the loop, ignored, maybe even deliberately avoided. He felt like the police force and the FBI alike were trying to hide the fact that they were completely stumped by this case, unable to locate the idols they’d spent almost a month searching for.

“I’m afraid,” Park started, crossing his hands professionally behind his back. “That I cannot disclose any of that info …”

Kyungsoo was done.

“No!” he snapped harshly, throwing aside all caution and fear of being arrested for insulting a government official as he stepped forwards and jabbed his finger in Park’s chest. “You don’t get to say that to me – or any of us – anymore. Our friends are out there right now, it’s your job to find them and, so far, you’ve done nothing!”

“I understand your frustration, Kyungsoo-ssi, but you know that we have managed to rescue two of the hostages from …”

“You’ve managed to?!” Kyungsoo shrieked, his incredulity bubbling over into full-on anger. “ _You’ve_ managed to?! You haven’t managed to do shit! Donghyuck escaped and Donghyuck brought you to Yuta! That child’s done more than you and your entire team put together and he didn’t have the half the manpower or the technology that you do!”

He no longer cared if he was dragged to the police station in handcuffs. He no longer cared if he was shot here on the spot for such disgusting disrespect.

His mathyung and his maknae were being held for a ransom that no longer existed, suffering indescribable torture on a daily basis for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and his leader was fading away right before his eyes.

He knew Junmyeon was going to die. And now he might as well admit that Sehun and Minseok would, too. He had completely lost his grip on both reality and sanity and if they threw him in a prison cell because of that then so be it.

“Fucking do something!” he yelled in Park’s face as the detective remained unreadable and composed. “Find them! Or at least find something that will help you find them! They’re hurt! They’re dying! Donghyuck said Minseok-hyung had a seizure! A fucking seizure! Because he was so dehydrated that his brain started to short-circuit! And Jeonghan was raped! You get that, right? They raped him! And that’s just the stuff we know about! That’s just the stuff we’ve been sent in those fucking sadistic video recordings! What else do you think is happening to them right now? Are they even still fucking breathing right now? They’re suffering and you’re doing nothing!”

He screamed so loudly that he thought his throat might tear in two. Spittle was flying from the tip of his tongue and, despite how Park towered over him in both height and superiority, he was only just shy of throwing punches.

“Just … Just fucking do something!” he finished, forcing himself to retreat several steps with his hands balled into fists at his sides as he heaved in forcibly controlled breaths.

There was silence and, for a moment, Kyungsoo wondered if he’d just sentenced himself to a night in jail for his insubordination and blatant disrespect of an FBI agent, but then Park cleared his throat and, without the slightest trace of emotion in his voice, volleyed the same rehearsed speech Kyungsoo had been expecting him to.

“I can see that you’re very upset, Kyungsoo-ssi, and I am truly sorry for all the torment you and your friends are currently going through but I can give you my solemn word that my team and I are doing everything we can to locate and rescue all the hostages. As soon as we have any information that may help us do that, you will be the first to know.”

He dropped into a slightly deeper bow than before but Kyungsoo was too numb to reciprocate the gesture so he spun on his polished heel and marched away.

Kyungsoo stumbled, throwing out an arm to catch himself against the wall, and slid clumsily to the floor with a thump of shuddering bones.

He sat there in the middle of the hospital ward corridor, tears rolling down his cheeks in torrents as he tried to remember the last time he’d eaten more than a glucose tablet.

When had life turned out this way? When had things gone so wrong? He’d been happy. He’d been content with who he was and where he was going and then his entire universe had been ripped out from underneath him.

Just four weeks ago, he’d been in the prime of his life. At the top of his career, surrounded by the people he loved more than anything. And now it looked like three of his members weren’t going to make it to see the next fall.

A shadow was cast over him and, for a moment, he assumed it was Park returning to read him his Miranda rights but then he looked up and saw Taehyung shuffling from foot to foot, nervously fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie before he finally worked up the courage to hold out a granola bar.

“You should eat this,” he mumbled. “I can tell just by looking at you that your blood sugar’s about as low as Mnet’s popularity.”

Kyungsoo stared up at him, eyes still red and sore.

“Sorry,” Taehyung apologised immediately. “Bad time for jokes, I guess.”

Kyungsoo could tell he was about to retract the offer of the granola bar and then probably retreat into the shadows so he reached out and plucked the wrapper from the boy’s hand, stretching his exhausted face into the most realistic smile he could muster.

“Thank you,” he croaked, a little bit of his life getting brighter when he saw a flash of Taehyung’s boxy grin. “Care to join me?”

He gestured towards the ground beside him, trying to mimic Taehyung’s humorous coping strategies and finding that they did work at least a little when his new companion slid down the wall to sit beside him.

“You look like you’re having a rough day.”

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo smirked bitterly, tearing the wrapper and taking a bite of the sugary treat. “I guess you could say that.”

He didn’t want to give Taehyung the time to ask him about it – he wasn’t sure he was able to put his emotions into words right now – so he cut in with his own slightly intrusive inquiry, “How’s Seokjin doing?”

It felt good to see somebody have at least the slightest sliver of hope after so many repetitive days of nothing but darkness and despair.

“He’s doing well,” Taehyung relayed, still picking at a loose thread on his sleeve as he showed his knees a small smile. “He can walk pretty much completely on his own now and his pain levels are right down. His doctor said he might even be able to go home next week.”

“That’s great,” Kyungsoo responded, maybe a little too lifelessly. “Tell him I’m glad he’s getting better.”

The light in Taehyung’s eyes faded. It was only a flicker but, ever since Junmyeon’s attempt, Kyungsoo had trained himself to see the tiniest cracks in a façade of composition.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel guilty,” Taehyung murmured, almost inaudibly.

“Why?”

“Because I hid in the bathroom,” came the shameful reply. “I hid while Hoseok-hyung was being beaten and Seokjin-hyung was being stabbed and Jimin was being tied up and Yoongi-hyung and Jungkook were being taken. I just hid. I could have helped them and I hid.”

Kyungsoo wanted to offer comfort. He wanted to tell Taehyung that it wasn’t his fault. That anyone in their right mind would have stayed as far away as possible from a situation like that. That not everybody was an action hero from the movies.

But he couldn’t. He was too tired. Even the glucose rush from the granola bar couldn’t give him the energy to fix yet another broken soul.

“You shouldn’t feel like that,” was all he managed to get out, staring at a fixed spot on the wall in front of him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

They lapsed into a tired silence, contemplating their own miserable situations and wallowing in their respective lagoons of guilt.

And then Taehyung said the six words Kyungsoo would never forget for as long as he lived.

“I heard Junmyeon needs a liver.”

“W … What?”

“AB negative, right? You think he'd be willing to take mine?”


	48. School Photoshoots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Lee Chan (Dino of SEVENTEEN)

           Chan had given up on trying.

Trying to get his hyung’s attention. Trying to comfort him. Trying to find some kind of hope. Trying to keep hold of something to live for. Trying to live, full stop. He’d just given up on it all.

If what Sehun had said was true and they were going to be sold for whatever sick and twisted reasons then he didn’t want to be around when the transaction went down. He didn’t want this. He’d never wanted this. He wanted to go home.

He wanted to see Jeonghan smile.

But from the looks of his hyung, curled up on his side in the corner of the room with his hands fisted in his hair and his face buried in his knees and blood staining his clothes and his breaths coming out harsh and uncontrolled, Jeonghan wasn’t ever going to smile again.

He must be in so much pain. Chan was right in front of him and yet he couldn’t make a single move to help him. And even if he wasn’t leashed like a dog then he wouldn’t know what to do.

How did you comfort somebody who had been through what that boy had? How did you take away their suffering when they’d been pinned to the ground and ripped apart in a video that could have then been posted anywhere?

The key grated in the lock and the door swung open but Chan didn’t move his gaze from Jeonghan’s trembling figure in the corner. He didn’t want these people to feed him when he was just going to be slaughtered anyway.

He expected to see one of Tattoo’s cronies crouch down beside Minseok, check he was breathing, then move onto Yoongi and then finally approach the rest of them with the bottles and the bread they had been living off for god knows how long now.

But that wasn’t what happened.

There were two of them. Jacket was the first to enter, his filthy fingers twirling a knife between them, and then there was Muscles. The one person Chan despised more than anything else on this entire planet. And they were heading straight for him.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse from lack of use, eyes widening when Jacket raised the knife. “What are you doing?”

He tried to move away, using his feet to push him backwards but there was only so far he could go and before he’d made it even an inch, Jacket was gripping a fistful of his hair and tugging his head to the side.

Fear blasted through Chan’s system the moment he felt the cool steel blade of the knife against his throat and the gruff grunt of “hold still” did nothing for his sanity. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to briefly wonder what had changed for them to suddenly want to kill them as he waited for the death he’d craved for so long.

There was the soft snip of metal cutting through rope and then the pressure around his neck disappeared, his makeshift collar falling away and leaving him completely detached from the wall for the first time since they’d arrived in their secondary prison.

“Get up,” Tattoo ordered, pocketing his knife as he seized Chan’s upper arm and wrenched him to his feet. “Now move.”

The swelling around his ankle had gone down but the joint was still horrifically disfigured, and so his steps were clumsy and disastrously coordinated but the vice Jacket clamped around his arm kept him at least partially upright as he was forced to move towards the door.

“Where are we going?” he whimpered, wanting to pull away but too scared to try. “Where are you taking me?”

He looked over his shoulder at Sehun and Jungkook, hoping against hope that one of them would speak up even though he knew they wouldn’t. They weren’t even looking at him, too engrossed in their own misery to bother caring about anything else.

“Hyung!” Chan cried, tears starting to spill over his cheeks as he dug his heels into the ground. “Hyung, help me!”

This wasn’t how he wanted to die. Not like this. He wasn’t ready. He needed more time. And he didn’t even know who he was calling out to, whether it be Sehun, Jungkook, Seungcheol or … Or Jeonghan.

Jeonghan who, at the sound of that plea for mercy, raised his head from where it had remained firmly wedged between his hands and whose eyes locked with his baby brother’s as the kid was forcibly removed from the room.

Chan saw his lips moving, a word looking remarkably similar to “no” ghosting over those pale strips of flesh, and his heart felt like it tore right in two when he saw Jeonghan trying to move towards him.

He was in indescribable agony and coping with the most traumatic experience any human had ever faced and yet he was still trying to rescue his maknae from the very people who had torn him to pieces.

For the briefest of moments, Chan had hope, but it was extinguished the instant that Muscles stepped into the frame.

He loomed over Jeonghan, beady little eyes lighting up at the opportunity kneeling before him, and Jeonghan scrambled back into the corner like a spider trying to escape the shoe that was about to stomp it to death.

“No!” Chan screamed just as Jacket thrust him over the threshold and into the corridor outside. “No! Leave him alone! Please leave him alone!”

“Shut up!” Jacket hissed, giving Chan’s arm an unnecessarily brutal shake as he continued dragging him over the splintered floor. “The more fuss you make, the longer my colleague gets to have with your friend.”

Chan clamped his jaw shut and sealed his lips right there and then, his entire body turning to ice as goosebumps pricked the skin up and down his arms.

Whatever was happening right now, he was going to let them do it as fast as they could. And then he was going to get back to Jeonghan. As fast as he could. He wasn’t going to give that bastard a single spare second to abuse his hyung again.

Jacket manhandled him down the narrow passageway between the stairs and the wall and he tried to look around, searching for a window that he could see through to identify any sort of landmark that would be helpful if he somehow managed to get his hands on a phone.

Then his bare feet met with grimy tiles and, before he could register the change of scenery, both his shoulders were seized and he was shoved onto a closed toilet seat.

The bathroom was filthy, looking like it hadn’t been cleaned in over a decade, but he was just grateful to be able to take weight off his ankle even if he had no idea what they were planning to do with him here.

“Let me make this clear to you,” Jacket whispered as he crouched down, fingers digging into Chan’s thighs as a warning. “If you try anything – and I mean _anything_ – I’m going to let my buddy take Jeonghan on a little road trip. He’s got quite a few friends who are interested in pretty boys, you see, and I can assure you that they won’t be nearly as gentle as he was.”

Chan nodded fervently, more tears dribbling from his eyes as he tried to push those images from his mind. He understood the threat perfectly: behave or Jeonghan would get raped again.

Jacket reached behind him and grabbed what looked like a set of clean clothes from the floor, holding them up so Chan could see them.

“I’m going to free your hands. Then I’m going to lock you in here, you’re going to take a shower and change into these clothes. Don’t bother looking for a way to escape because there isn’t one and, as I said before, the longer you spend with us, the longer Jeonghan spends out there.”

Chan nodded once more. He had no idea what was going on or why he was suddenly being allowed to shower and wear fresh clothes when his captors had shown him no such kindness before now, but he wanted to get back to Jeonghan.

Jacket hooked a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him forwards so he could get to the tape on his hands, slitting through it with the blade of his knife. Chan immediately brought his arms in front of him, trying to roll the cramps out of his shoulders and peeling the excess tape from his bruised wrists.

The moment Jacket was closing the door behind him, he was stripping off his clothes and trying to shake off the feeling that somebody was about to burst in at any moment while he was bare and vulnerable.

There was definitely mould clustering at the base of the shower but he didn’t care. He wasn’t planning on a lengthy bathing session anyway. The dial was stiff and rusted and it took several moments before he managed to activate the rather pathetic dribble of water.

He hadn’t been expecting the luxury of warmth but the ice that cascaded over his body was still a gigantic shock to his system and his throat emitted a shuddering gasp.

But no matter how scarce the temperature, the feeling of being able to wash after so _fucking_ long was heaven. His body was coated with grime and blood and he smelt absolutely revolting so the wrinkled bar of soap that had been left for him was a true blessing.

Standing on his injured ankle was borderline unbearable and he was constantly haunted with the reminder of what Jeonghan was going through at that very moment so, before he’d had a proper chance to enjoy the feeling of cleanliness, he was hopping out of the shower again.

He hadn’t been provided with a towel so he used his rancid old clothes to dry himself off before slipping into the garments Jacket had showed him. They were plain and simple: sweatpants and a black T-Shirt, both of which were only just small enough to fit.

“You done?” came a bored drone from the other side of the door just as Chan was trying to staunch the water dripping from his overly long hair.

“Yes, sir!” he called back, his voice trembling slightly.

“Sit on the toilet seat and put your hands on your head,” Jacket ordered and Chan obliged at once. “Don’t you dare move.”

The door opened and that disgusting man’s stubbled face loomed over him, taking in his still-slightly sodden appearance with an air of reluctant satisfaction. It took Chan several moments to register that he was a roll of duct tape in one hand and what looked like a first aid kit in the other.

“Hands behind your back.”

Chan obeyed, wincing slightly as his already abused wrists were bound together once more. If he weren’t so desperate to get back to Jeonghan then he would have been disappointed that he’d missed his opportunity to make the most of having use of his arms.

Jacket knelt in front of him once he was done, flipping open the green box and procuring several bandages that were at least ten shades whiter than the tiles that lined the floor.

“Hold still.”

He tried not to whimper as his wounded ankle was grabbed far too violently and then swaddled far too tightly in the roll of gauze. He supposed he should be grateful that they were helping to support the injured joint and he allowed a shaky, “thank you, sir” to slip from between his lips.

Jacket used the last of the duct tape to stick down the end of the bandage and then Chan was being hauled to his feet again.

It had definitely made a difference. The bones no longer felt like they were grinding together and he could bear more weight on that leg. It had done absolutely nothing for the pain but he wasn’t about to point that out and risk causing Jeonghan any more suffering.

Before he knew it, he was being pulled back in the direction of the living room and he wondered if that was it. If all they’d wanted to do was give him a shower and make sure his ankle wasn’t stopping him from walking too far.

But then they stopped halfway down that corridor and that was when Chan saw Baldy waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.

He had a kind of disinterested expression on his face as he took hold of his captive’s elbow and forced him to his knees with a curt declaration that if he moved, he would regret it. There was a blank wall behind him, similar to the setting of one of those school photoshoots. Too similar.

“Look at the camera,” Jacket barked and Chan’s head snapped up to see with a sickening sense of realisation that his kidnapper was holding a phone in his direction. “Smile.”

There was the click of the shutter and Chan shrunk in on himself, hating not knowing what that photo was going to be used for and that he hadn’t been quick enough to turn away from the lens so that they couldn’t capture him looking this pathetic.

“Good boy,” Baldy crooned as Chan was once again forced to stand. “It’s good to see you’ve learned how to shut that stupid mouth of yours.”

They left Jacket pondering over the photo on his phone screen as the door to their left was opened and they crossed the threshold into what Chan hadn’t realised was the room he and his friends had been staying in.

Sehun and Jungkook were staring up at him now, taking in his appearance with mixtures of confusion and fear on their faces as they tried to come to terms with why his outfit had changed and the mud was gone from his face and feet.

But Chan didn’t care about them.

“We’re back,” Baldy announced. “The kid was good as gold. I’m afraid your friends are going to be disappointed.”

Muscles looked up from where he’d been crouched behind Jeonghan. The boy was on his knees, shoulders hunched so high that they almost touched his ears, chin pressed against his chest and hands fisted in the material of his sweats.

And Chan could see clear as day that Muscles had been touching him. The monster’s hands were still on his hyung’s chest as he reached around from behind to run his fingers over what wasn’t his.

Jeonghan was twitching. The actions were miniscule and barely even noticeable but they were there, infinitesimal muscle spasms as that broken shell of a human being trembled and shook in the presence of his worst nightmare.

“Shame,” Muscles huffed, straightening up and giving his victim a kick to the spine that sent him keeling over onto the floor to curl back into his tiny ball. “I promised them a good time tonight.”

Chan wanted to say something. He wanted to do something. He wanted to scream at these dickheads. He wanted to drop to his knees beside his hyung and tell him that it was okay. That he wasn’t going to let anybody touch him.

But he was afraid of retribution. He was afraid that the punishment Jeonghan had so narrowly avoided would be carried out if he even put so much as a toe out of line.

So he stayed silent like the good little pet these people had turned him into, telling himself that he was doing it for Jeonghan’s sake as he was led back to his post and flung to the floor so the rope could be refastened around his neck.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to open his eyes and find out that all of this had been nothing more than one horrifically vivid dream.

But as Baldy moved onto Jungkook, cutting the ties on his feet and neck, and dragged his withered form from the room, Chan knew that wasn’t going to happen.


	49. You Can Stop Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written from the Perspective of Kim Taehyung (V of BTS)

             When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the screams.

Jimin screaming for help. Jungkook screaming for his hyungs. Seokjin screaming in pain. Hoseok screaming in protest. Yoongi screaming to stay. To stay in the bathroom. To stay until somebody came to get him.

Taehyung shook himself, prying his eyelids apart to break that connection he had with the memories of that night when everything had gone to shit and his world had been flipped upside down while he cowered in the bathroom.

He twisted the taps, watching as the water splattered into the basin, individual droplets splashing against his forearms. His hands barely shook when he slid them beneath the faucet, scrubbing the soap suds into his fingernails and then rinsing them clean.

He’d gotten much better at being in a bathroom without suffering more flashbacks, more recollections, more reminders of the people who had stormed into his house and ripped his family to shreds.

He’d gotten better. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.

“Taehyung?”

The soft murmur of his name was accompanied by a gentle knock on the door and Taehyung turned off the tap, reaching for the towel hanging beside him so he could dry the moisture from his hands.

“I’m coming!” he called back, a little spark of pride flaring inside him when his voice came out without a hitch or a wobble. “Just give me a minute.”

He took another moment to stare at his reflection in the mirror, inspecting every last detail about himself in the hope that he’d be able to find something he didn’t completely and utterly despise.

His skin was still slightly pale but not as pale as Namjoon told him it had been when he’d first woken from the anaesthesia. His own clothes felt far more comfortable adorning his body as opposed to that papery hospital gown he’d been forced to wear for the last few days.

And as he lifted his shirt to expose his abdomen, even the angry red scar running several inches up from his belly button looked slightly less inflamed as the skin slowly fused back together in the wake of such an invasive surgical procedure.

The doctors had given him brochures and pamphlets about laser surgery and various other treatments that would be able to make it fade but Taehyung didn’t want that. He liked his scar. It reminded him that he wasn’t totally useless.

Covering himself back up again, he gave his hands one last shake to rid them of any excess water and then unlocked the door, emerging from the bathroom to see Namjoon packing the last of his things into the overnight bag he’d kept with him at the hospital.

“Ready to go?” his leader asked as he helped him into his jacket.

“Definitely,” Taehyung murmured, forcing a smile that he hoped would soothe the anxiety he knew Namjoon never drew breath without. “I’ve been here long enough.”

“Okay,” Namjoon acknowledged, clapping him on the shoulder before gesturing towards the wheelchair waiting by the door. “Your chariot awaits, my liege.”

Taehyung scoffed, “I don’t need that. I can walk.”

“Doctors orders,” Namjoon protested as he took his dongsaeng by the shoulders and steered him into the metal contraption complete with wheels and handles and the stupid little holders for his feet. “Your stitches are still healing and therefore you can’t make any unnecessary movements or you could rip them.”

He set the bag on Taehyung’s lap and then circled around to the back of the chair so he could push him through the door and out into the corridor before the newly-discharged patient could make any further objections.

Taehyung just allowed himself to be carted around, suppressing the sigh of exasperation that threatened to spill from his lips.

He didn’t regret what he’d done. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. But he had to admit that he’d been slightly disheartened to find out that his recovery would be a little more complicated than just a couple of days in a hospital bed and a course of antibiotics to prevent infection.

It hadn’t occurred to him that having 60% of his liver carved out of his body was going to leave him on bedrest for almost a month. But he didn’t regret it. Not for a single second.

“Hyung?” he asked, eyebrow arching when he realised that the direction they were heading in was not the right one. “You do know that the parking lot is the other way, right?”

“I know,” came Namjoon’s hum of acknowledgement from above him. “But there’s somebody who wants to say ‘thanks’ to you.”

Taehyung didn’t even have time to process what his hyung had just said before his chair was drawing to a stop in front of somebody else’s hospital room door, the number _237_ engraved on the plaque in the centre.

Namjoon reached over Taehyung’s head, knocked once and, barely a second later, the door swung open to reveal Yixing’s pasty pale and yet beaming face on the other side.

Taehyung just gawked up at him, unsure what to say. They barely knew each other. He wasn’t sure they’d ever said more than two words to each other but now Yixing was looking down at him like he was the light of his life.

“Uh …” the boy mumbled, shaking himself out of whatever stupor he’d succumbed to and nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, Taehyung.”

“Hi.”

Yixing looked slightly breathless, eyebrows crinkled in the centre of his forehead, as though he were fighting a particularly ferocious battle inside his own mind. And then Taehyung was being hugged so tightly that it was almost difficult to breathe.

He sat there, too stunned to speak for several moments, before he registered just how violently Yixing was shaking as he clung to the person who’d saved his best friend from where he had dropped to his knees beside Taehyung’s wheelchair.

“Thank you,” he whimpered. “Thank you so much. I know you didn’t have to do this but you did and … Thank you … Thank you for giving me my friend back.”

Suddenly feeling his eyes burning with what he hadn’t realised was emotion, Taehyung brought his arms up to return the embrace, squeezing just as tight in the hope that he would be able to transfer comfort into Yixing’s body through the process of osmosis.

“You’re welcome,” was all he managed to get out.

Yixing finally drew back, swiping at the tears on his face and smiling sheepishly as he climbed to his feet and gave Namjoon a slightly-clumsy bow before stepping aside. Taehyung didn’t see the response but then his leader was taking the bag from his lap and pushing his chair forwards into the hospital room.

“I was wondering when I’d get to see you,” Junmyeon greeted as soon as he laid eyes on his saviour. “For a while there, I thought you were just going to skip off into the sunset without even saying goodbye.”

The transformation was incredible. If Taehyung hadn’t seen the ‘before’ and ‘after’ images himself, he wouldn’t have believed it was possible.

The last time he’d seen Junmyeon was just before the two of them had been carted into surgery. His skin had been the colour of sour milk, his eyes had been taped shut, there had been a tube down his throat and a machine at his side with a terrifyingly slow heart rhythm.

He had already looked like he was beyond repair but, now that Taehyung was sitting in his wheelchair like a dumbstruck lemon, the almighty leader of the equally almighty boyband was smiling. Actually smiling. As if he hadn’t been on death’s door just a few days previously.

Taehyung heard the door closing quietly behind him as Namjoon and Yixing left them in private and he took that as his cue to wheel his chair closer to Junmyeon’s bed so they could speak without shouting across the room.

“You look good,” he forced out, gesturing pathetically at the man before him. “Your colour’s back and you … You’re breathing by yourself which I guess is a good thing.”

Junmyeon’s smile turned sad as he nodded, shuffling a little higher on his pillows, before finally murmuring, “I’ve been told that I have you to thank for that.”

Taehyung looked away. He hadn’t consented to that surgery so he could be bombarded with praise and gratitude. He wasn’t a saint. He wasn’t a hero. He didn’t deserve any thanks. He’d just been making up for the sins he’d committed.

“You’re okay now, Taehyung,” Junmyeon said, drawing the boy’s attention back towards him with his unexpected declaration. “You and the laws of the universe are even. So no more blaming yourself. No more punishing yourself. You’ve done something amazing. Be proud of that.”

Taehyung hadn’t realised he was crying until he felt the warm wetness dribbling down his cheeks but he didn’t have the clarity to reach up and wipe them away as he continued to stare up at Junmyeon.

“How …” he whispered croakily. “How did …?”

How had he known Taehyung had been punishing himself for what he’d done that night? How had he known Taehyung had seen this surgery as a way to redeem himself in the eyes of the world? How had he known?

“I understand,” Junmyeon continued gently, reaching out to take Taehyung’s hand. “Why you needed to do this. I understand that you’ve been hating yourself since the night we lost them and I want to tell you to stop. Okay, Tae? Stop with the self-sacrificial stuff. You saved my life. So you can stop now.”

With one hand still clutching Junmyeon’s for dear life, Taehyung used the other to bury his face from view, snot and spit spewing from his nose and mouth in torrents as he completely lost all sense of sanity and surrendered his defensive walls.

He had been punishing himself. He had been deliberately avoiding meals, telling himself he didn’t deserve to eat. He had been sitting diligently at Jimin’s bedside for weeks on end to help him through his nightmares, telling himself he didn’t deserve to sleep.

He had gone for walks on the coldest days without wearing a coat, telling himself he didn’t deserve to be healthy. He had crossed the road countless times without looking, telling himself he didn’t deserve to be alive.

He had been punishing himself, sure, but it was only now that he realised he’d been doing a little more than that. He’d been harming himself. No razors, no burns, no bruises, sure, but still pain and suffering and misery that he’d inflicted upon his own body.

But he could stop now.

He would never completely forgive himself for cowering in that bathroom while Yoongi and Jungkook were taken and Seokjin was stabbed and all those other horrible things would be happening, but he could stop now.

Because he’d saved Junmyeon. His actions had given somebody back their life. Had given a team back their leader and a group of kids back their friend. He’d done a good thing.

So he could stop now.

Namjoon came in a few moments later and crouched beside the wheelchair, taking Taehyung against his chest and stroking his hair in the way he always did when he caught the kid having one of his meltdowns.

“Thank you,” Taehyung whispered, addressing Junmyeon even though he still had his face pressed into Namjoon’s chest.

He could hear the smile in the reply, “Ditto.”

Taehyung spent the short journey out to the car in complete silence, his hood pulled up over his head to conceal his swollen face from anyone who passed, and when Namjoon opened the car door for him, he climbed in without purposefully moving too fast in the hope that he’d rip his stitches.

Seokjin was already in there, his phone dropping to his lap the moment he had his little brother by his side.

Neither of them said anything. They just cuddled in the backseat as they drove home and the last thing Taehyung thought of before he drifted off into a much-needed slumber was that he was lucky both he and Seokjin had been discharged on the same day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am trying my best

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos really help motivate me to keep writing so if you have a spare minute, let me know what you think. Have a great day :)


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